Summer Love
by true-elven
Summary: Set immediately after Book 5. Harry has a gorgeous nextdoor neighbor on Privet Drive and when Hermione comes to visit for the summer he is torn between two beautiful girls.
1. Introductions

**Chapter One**

Harry couldn't remember ever feeling lonelier than he did that warm late-June evening. Privet Drive seemed about to suffocate under a cloud of humidity; a storm had threatened all day, but the rain held off, punishing them with oppressive heat. The temperature had everyone in a foul mood. Even Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were in meaner spirits than usual - which was why Harry had opted to brave the sweltering evening without the pleasure of air-conditioning. Not even a nice cool glass of lemonade in front of the telly seemed worth withstanding the tension in the Dursleys' living room.

This summer, soon to be Harry's sixteenth, had in some ways been the best of his life. After Mad-Eye Moody, the Weasleys, Tonks and Lupin out-right threatened the Dursleys at the train station if they weren't good to their nephew, Harry had enjoyed much more freedom. His aunt and uncle and cousin still detested him, and he certainly wasn't treated like a member of the family, but he worked on his summer schoolwork without interruption, openly sent and received letters by owl-post, and came and went from Privet Drive as he pleased. Even Dudley had laid off his usual harassment. Harry had long ago learned to outrun his grossly overweight cousin, but words were harder to outrun than punches, and Dudley had in the past never missed an opportunity to poke fun at Harry. Now, he walked a wide circle around his cousin, obviously afraid that the slightest insult might bring curses raining down on his head. 

So why, when things were as nice as they'd ever been for him outside of Hogwarts, was Harry so down?

He scuffed his shoe along the sidewalk, following his now well-worn path to the park on Magnolia Road - his safe haven, his private spot. He supposed part of it was the unmasked tension between his aunt and uncle that had escalated all summer. Much as he disliked Petunia and Vernon, Harry never intended to cause them any real trouble, and the arguments they'd been having since his return were unsettling to him. He couldn't recall them ever really fighting before. Now, they didn't quarrel over anything significant - a burnt piece of toast, a late arrival from work, a busted headlight on the car, any of these things could send them into snarling fits of rage with one another. Harry sensed the underlying source of the tension was more serious than toast or headlights, of course, and he suspected whatever it was had to do with him.

But that was only part of it. The truth was, Harry still couldn't get over the death of his godfather, Sirius. Although Petunia was his mother's sister, losing Sirius had felt to Harry like losing the last tangible link with his parents. He missed his godfather terribly, and he suspected he always would. But he hoped that sooner or later the gnawing emptiness in his stomach would ease up and allow him to breathe easier.

_Or maybe it's the weather, _he thought glumly, using the hem of his white tee-shirt to mop sweat off his forehead. Another improvement on Privet Drive this summer were his clothes; whereas in the past he'd been saddled with Dudley's cast-offs, which were inevitably five sizes too big for him, this year Aunt Petunia had packed him off to the shops and bought him new clothes. Another side-effect of Moody's threats, no doubt, and while the clothes were hardly fancy or expensive, they suited Harry just fine.

And he was certainly growing fast, as Petunia had sniffed with something akin to horror during the clothes-shopping trip. He supposed he looked enough like his father as Aunt Petunia remembered him to ruffle her a bit. Harry wasn't sure what to think about his appearance, really. He still had a mop of unruly brown hair, the same piercing green eyes, and of course the inescapable scar on his forehead, but now he was getting tall - not nearly so tall as Ron, but still - and Quidditch practice had seen to it that he was thin and muscular. He wondered, sometimes, whether he was handsome, but it wasn't as if he could ask anyone - he certainly wasn't about to pose such a question to Ron or Hermione, or anyone else in the D.A. club or at Hogwarts, and he already knew what the Dursleys thought of him.

_Cho didn't seem to think so. _Harry was startled by that thought and quickly shrugged it off. He was long past caring what Cho Chang thought of him. Too much had happened this year to make girls a priority on his mind. What did it matter if he was good-looking, anyway? Some of the girls at Hogwarts thought Draco Malfoy was handsome, and look what an idiot he was. Harry decided he would settle for being the best wizard in the world, and let his looks be hanged. Girls were the only ones who cared about looks, after all, and what did it matter what girls thought?

Later, Harry would wonder if Fate hadn't decided to play a cruel joke on him just for thinking that.

Because as he rounded the last corner and tromped into the empty nighttime park, making a beeline for the swing-set where he spent many lonely evenings, he stopped dead in his tracks as he realized someone else had found his spot. His eyes swept her over from bottom to top: a pair of tanned, well-sculpted legs flowing out of a rather scandalously short white cotton skirt, which was connected to an ice-blue tanktop from which extended lithely muscled arms, and on top of which sat the prettiest face, framed by the most beautiful screen of silky red hair, Harry had ever seen.

*           *           *           *

_Run away!_

Harry, who had faced dementors, dragons, Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself, almost immediately acquiesced to that first impulse. He was abruptly aware that his hair was uncombed and that the back of his tee-shirt was soaked with sweat. He also suffered a horrid rush of memories of idiotic things he had said and done in front of Cho, who, up until this moment, had been the prettiest girl alive to him. Better to hightail it out of the park than make a fool of himself in front of this girl, too!

But he hesitated. He didn't recall ever seeing her around Privet Drive or the park - and he knew he'd have remembered her. For a second he considered introducing himself, then realized he'd probably forget his own name if he got any closer to her, and so turned to go.

Naturally, she looked up at just that moment and saw him. Harry heaved an inward sigh. No getting out of it now - if he rushed off, she'd probably think he was an axe-murder or something. _Bloody hell..._

"Hi."

American, he realized the instant she spoke. No wonder he'd never seen her in the neighborhood. But what was she doing here? The park on Magnolia Road hardly qualified as a tourist attraction.

He ambled a bit closer, trying to strut the way he'd seen Bill Weasley do in front of pretty girls. The stranger's hazel eyes sparkled at him; the knowing grin that turned up the corners of her mouth said plainly she saw through his attempt to impress her. Harry colored a bit in the cheeks and thanked the Fates that it was too dark for her to notice.

"Hello," he said back. He stopped at the edge of the swing-set and leaned as nonchalantly as possible against one of the support poles. An awkward silence descended almost instantly.

_Say something, idiot! Be interesting!_

The girl looked away and pushed off the ground with her bare feet. She swung lightly back and forth for a few moments, the squeaking of the chain filling the silence. Harry licked his lips and, mind racing wildly through possible conversation topics, settled on the most obvious: "Are you new here?"

_Oh, very insightful, Potter..._

"How'd you guess?" She grinned at him, but not maliciously, and Harry smiled back automatically. He was close enough now to see a dusting of freckles over her brown face. He wasn't sure why they made his heart flop oddly in his chest. "Just moved here. From Orlando."

_Orlando? _He shook his head slightly, puzzled. "That's in the States, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Florida." Ah. Palm trees and beaches - she looked suited for that.

The girl grinned again. He decided he liked her smile a lot; she had cherry-red lips and two rows of perfect, small white teeth. "My mom just got remarried, and her new hubby lives here, so..." She shrugged, as if to say, And that's that.

"What street'd you move to?" Feeling more relaxed - she seemed easy enough to talk to, and probably as lonely as he was - Harry eased into a swing two down from hers. 

"Pivot, I think? Private?"

_Pivot...Private...Privet?_

He swallowed audibly. Surely he wouldn't be so lucky as to have this gorgeous creature on his very own street! "You mean 'Privet'?" 

"That's the one. Privet." As Harry decided there really might be a god, she added, "I'm Quinn, by the way."

Quinn. Turning the name over in his mind, he decided it was the prettiest one he'd ever heard. "Harry." He shook the hand she offered, relishing the feel of her soft skin against his, and they shared both a grin and a blush. 

"Sorry if I invaded your spot," Quinn went on. Harry was wishing he could hold her hand but not about to say it. "Mom and Aaron - that's my stepdad - are having this dinner party, and it's all these stuffy British - "

Her eyes widened and her voice trailed off. Harry couldn't hold back a laugh. "Stuffy British wankers?" he volunteered. She flushed deeper but also started to grin again, so he continued, "Dread boring suits? Bloody ole' English farts?"

Quinn was giggling. "I think you've got the general idea." The smile she bestowed on him was dazzling. "I've gotta learn to keep my mouth shut over here."

"It's all right. We have our own thoughts on Yanks," Harry assured her. The short silence that fell then was companionable, not awkward, and he asked out of real curiosity, "D'ya know anyone here?"

"Nope. Just this nice guy named Harry." 

He blushed so fiercely he thought his face might catch fire. To cover it, he offered, "I don't have many friends around here myself." She cast him a sideways look, to which he hurriedly added, "I mean, I go away to school all year, so my friends don't live around here."

_Nice one, Potter, make yourself sound like a dolt - and now you've brought up Hogwarts, way to go!_

"Where's your school?"

Of course that was her next question. Harry hesitated, brutally torn between the truth - unfortunately he expected Ministry officials would descend on them immediately and drag him off to Azkaban for breaking the Statute of Secrecy (again) - and the lie the Dursleys told, St. Brutus's School for Incurably Insane Boys. Neither seemed a good option, so he waffled, "A boarding school up north."

Quinn made a face. "Yick. Boarding school. I bet it's all matching uniforms and segregated dormitories, huh? And some crotchety old headmaster always slapping your hands with a ruler?"

Harry thought of the Hogwarts uniforms and the stair to the girls' dorm that turned into a slide if boys approached it. "Well," he admitted, smiling to himself, "pretty much, yeah. Except the headmaster's all right."

"Mom's packing me off to school this fall." Quinn looked suddenly morose. "I can't imagine it. I mean, I went to public school back home, and it was great. Some stupid people, ya know, like everywhere," Harry pictured Malfoy and nodded heartily in agreement, "but my friends were all there. And...I sort of knew where I belonged, too."

Having been threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts on a few occasions, Harry completely understood Quinn's predicament. He couldn't imagine being shipped off to a new school, thousands of miles away from his friends. He supposed Quinn had been very popular in her school as well, and the fear of being disliked had to be even worse because of that.

Even still, he wasn't sure what to say to comfort her. She seemed to sense that and offered him a quick, understanding smile. "But hey, why worry over something that's months away, right?"

_Right - we've got the whole summer ahead of us..._

The prospect of spending long, sultry days in the company of this beautiful girl made Harry's head swim. He wondered what Ron would say if he could see them. Or Hermione. What would she think of him befriending this girl? 

_Weird. What do I care what Hermione would think?_

Well, she'd probably warn him to beware of a stranger, first off. Harry sighed. Much as he realized the danger he was in from Voldemort, he wasn't about to live in total paranoia. So he shook away thoughts of what his friends would say (although he suspected Ron would tell him to spot on, or something along those lines) and said brightly, "Exactly. Uh, I mean, there's not really loads of stuff to do around here, but..."

Quinn offered him another heart-stopping smile. "I'm sure we'll find ways to entertain ourselves."

She got to her feet and smoothed down her skirt. Harry stood, too, sensing that the evening was over. "Could I..." He fumbled for words, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. "I mean, would you like me to...walk you home?"

"That'd be really excellent, actually," she replied laughingly, "since I have absolutely no idea how to get back. I was just sort of walking when I found this place."

Harry laughed, too. "What number are you?"

"Six."

They had struck away from the swings. Now he slowed to a stop, his mind whirling. "Number Six, Privet Drive?"

"Yeah." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Why? What's the matter?"

"I live at Number Four."

"Oh." Quinn winked at him. "Then I guess that makes us neighbors, Harry."

As they started off again into the warm darkness, the first few drops of rain began to fall, and the storm finally broke.


	2. First Kiss

_Note: I'm really sorry it's been like a month since I updated! I had some crazy family stuff that came up unexpectedly. Now that school is out I hope to write more quickly. Thanks for your reviews! The encouragement and the advice means a lot. And for you Harry/Hermione shippers, I promise, Hermione will show up soon!_

**Chapter Two**

The next morning, Harry had hardly wiped the sleep out of his eyes when he heard a startling sound: Quinn's voice downstairs.

For a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming. But then he heard Aunt Petunia's nasally voice, shrill with panic, demand, "A friend of…Harry's? You're not – you're not from _that school_, are you?"

_Oh, bloody hell! Leave it to Aunt Petunia to blurt out his deepest, darkest secrets!_

Throwing the covers off, Harry changed from pajamas into jeans and a gray tee-shirt so quickly he hoped he wasn't unconsciously using magic. As he sprinted down the hall, he heard Quinn saying sweetly, "…just two houses down. I met Harry in the park yesterday."

"Oh." Aunt Petunia didn't sound convinced. Forcing himself to a walk at the top of the stairs – what would Quinn think if he leapt them all and shoved his aunt out of the way? – Harry noticed that his aunt's spine was perfectly rigid. He half-expected her to slam the door shut in Quinn's face, but instead she offered tightly, "Why don't you come in. I think Harry's still asleep…"

"No, I'm up, Aunt Petunia." Harry clambered down the stairs with a fake smile plastered to his face, willing his aunt to act normal. She glowered at him as he stepped up beside her. "This is Quinn. She lives in Number Six."

Quinn looked, if possible, even prettier than she had the day before. The short skirt had been exchanged for a pair of denim shorts (rather scandalously short, like her skirt had been) and a turquoise tank-top that brought out the emerald flecks in her hazel eyes. The smile she bestowed on him nearly stopped Harry's heart. "Hi," she said softly.

His knees turned to liquid. "Hi," he managed, rather breathily. Beside him, Aunt Petunia cleared her throat, and Harry blushed as he hurried to explain, "I walked Quinn home yesterday evening."

If Quinn wondered why Harry's aunt was acting like him having a visitor constituted a historic event, she hid it marvelously well. "Oh, Mrs. Dursley, before I forget," she said, oozing sweetness and sincerity, "my mother asked me if she could have a start off one of your rose bushes. She said they're absolutely the most _beautiful _flowers she's ever seen."

_Brilliant.__ Bloody brilliant._

Aunt Petunia's icy reserve melted instantly. The Dursleys enjoyed nothing better than being congratulated on their material possessions; Quinn had just won herself a place of honor in his aunt's heart. "Certainly, certainly," she answered. "Now, would you two like some lemonade? I have a fresh pitcher in the refrigerator."

"Actually," Quinn slid her eyes sideways toward Harry but kept her sweet smile firmly in place, "Harry promised to take me to the pool today. Maybe when we come back…?"

"Oh, that's fine, dear, just fine." Aunt Petunia's tone suggested Quinn could do no wrong, even if she and Harry were heading off to commit mass-murder. "And I'll get you a start from that bush before you go home."

"That'd be wonderful. I know Mom will really appreciate it." Turning her dazzling smile on Harry, Quinn said pertly, "Shall we?"

Harry's tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was suddenly having a very vivid image of Quinn in a tiny bikini – and the sparkle in her eyes implied she knew exactly what he was thinking. Flushing to the roots of his hair, he managed to mumble, "I gotta grab my suit – just a second…"

Ten minutes later, with Privet Drive fading quickly behind them, Harry congratulated Quinn on her victory over Aunt Petunia. "She seems nice," Quinn offered lamely, and then giggled at Harry's arched eyebrow. "Okay. She seemed…a little nuts?"

"The Dursleys are weird," Harry answered with a sigh. "Well, I guess the trouble is, they _aren't _weird. They're determined to be absolutely normal. Anything out of the ordinary, and it's like the sky is falling."

"The Dursleys?" Quinn echoed questioningly.

"Uh, yeah. They're, uh, not my parents." He looked away, not anxious to share that he was an orphan, and then be forced to lie about how his parents died. "Aunt Petunia is my mother's sister."

To his surprise, Quinn didn't press for an explanation. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Just my cousin Dudley." Harry grinned. "But he's big enough to count for two." Quinn giggled and smacked his arm in playful admonishment; he blushed again at the contact.

_Stop it, _he furiously ordered his flaming cheeks. _You keep blushing like this, she's going to think you're some kind of ninny!_

"And you?" he asked, turning right onto the tree-lined street that led to the public pool. "Brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. Just me." Quinn lifted her long hair off her shoulders and, slipping a small black elastic band off her wrist, caught it up into a high ponytail. "All my friends with siblings always told me how lucky I was. But I always wanted a little brother or sister – y'know, somebody to kick around." Harry laughed with her. "But, on days like this, I'm glad I don't have anybody to baby-sit or anything like that. Is Dudley your age?"

But Harry was slowing to a stop as they neared the chain-link fence around the pool. His stomach sank. He should have known – Dudley and his gang spent almost everyday hanging out at the pool. Unfortunately, their favorite pastime was not swimming, but terrorizing the younger kids who came there.

He briefly considered suggesting they do something else, but he couldn't think of anything interesting enough to forego swimming. So, smiling tightly at Quinn, he gestured toward the group of beefy-necked bullies chasing a small boy away from the snack bar and said, "See for yourself. That beached whale in the red trunks is my cousin."

Quinn glanced over and did a double-take, obviously repulsed by Dudley's behavior. The small boy was heading in the direction of his mother, sobbing loudly. Dudley and his friends – the only one Harry recognized was Piers, who was taller and brawnier but still as rat-faced as he remembered from last summer – had turned their attention to a mousy-haired girl about their age and were taunting her about her flat chest.

"What a bunch of assholes," Quinn muttered through clenched teeth. Before Harry could apologize for his cousin's idiocy, she suddenly stalked forward, yanked open the gate and marched fearlessly toward Dudley and his gang. With his stomach now in the vicinity of his shoes, Harry hurried to catch up with her. His mind was whirling: Without magic, he couldn't take on four boys, all of whom out-weighed him by at least fifteen pounds. But would Dudley be too cowed by fear of ending up with another tail or being attacked by more dementors to fight him at all?

He was soon to find out. Stepping between the bullies and their now-sniffling victim, Quinn said sharply, "Leave her alone."

The boys, open-mouthed, stopped their teasing and gawked at her. Bravely, Harry stepped up beside Quinn. Dudley barely managed to stifle a gasp; emboldened by his cousin's obvious fear, Harry added coolly, "Hey, Dudders, another hard day terrorizing the small and the weak?"

Dudley's pig-like eyes narrowed. His size made him fearsome, but he also looked rather silly with his lobster-pink cheeks (Dudley was too fair-skinned for so many days out in the sun) scrunched up and his fleshy jowls coiled into a grimace. "Get lost, Harry," he snapped.

Harry snorted at the lame come-back, but Piers was, unfortunately, finding his voice, and he proved to be far more biting than Dudley. "Damn, Potter, where'd you find this honey?" As he spoke, he looked Quinn up and down appreciatively.

"Fuck off, Piers," Harry responded, feeling a dangerous anger begin to boil in his stomach. It must have flashed in his eyes, because Dudley took a timid step backwards and placed a restraining hand on his friend's arm. The other two goons cracked their knuckles, scenting a fight. "C'mon, Quinn, let's go swim."

"Yeah, baby, let's see the bikini!" Piers leered at Quinn.

Harry opened his mouth to warn Piers that he could either shut his pie-hole or lose some teeth, but Quinn, smiling cattily, simply tugged her tank-top smoothly off over her head and then stepped gracefully out of her denim shorts. The bikini underneath was jet-black and tiny enough to make even Piers's mouth flop open in shock.

"You know," Quinn commented airily, "I guess bullies are the same on both sides of the Atlantic – a lot of talk, but nothing to back it up." Linking her arm through Harry's, she offered him her best smile. "You're right, Harry. Let's go swim."

Dizzy with relief – coward he wasn't, yet Harry didn't relish a fight where the odds were so hopelessly stacked against him - and tingling all over from her touch, he turned away with her. His head was buzzing. How amazing was that? She'd put Dudley and his gang in their place with a few short sentences, something he hadn't managed to do in all of the years he'd known them!

His happiness was short-lived. Recovering from the shock of Quinn disrobing, Piers called after them, "Have fun, Potter! I suppose you know all about _whores, _going to St. Brutus's!"

Harry froze. The anger bubbled up inside of him again, not for himself – he didn't care what Dudley's ignorant friends said about him – but for Quinn. He glanced sideways at her; she rolled her eyes as if to say, _Who__ cares, let's go have fun._

He drew in a deep, steadying breath and took another step forward. Piers, however, wasn't ready to let it go. He called again, this time in a louder, nastier voice, "I bet she's _good, _isn't she, Potter? You really should spread the wealth, you know – she looks like she wouldn't mind being passed around to your friends. A girl like that's _always _ready, if you know what I mean…"

Piers's voice faltered as Harry, ignoring Quinn's soft command to ignore the insults, rounded on him, fists clenched. Dudley reached for Piers and babbled something that sounded like, "No, don't make him mad," but Harry was advancing on Piers, leaving the other boy no choice but to fight.

"Oh, what's the matter, is little Potty mad – "

_Finally, an enemy I can face – no more running and hiding, no wands, no spells, just…my fist, his face…_

Harry was hardly aware of those thoughts as he stalked directly up to Piers and, without word or ceremony, punched him squarely in the face. He felt bone shatter against his knuckles; blood sputtered from Piers's nose, as the boy stumbled backward, squealing unintelligibly. Behind him, Quinn gasped in shock. Dudley, trembling from head to toe, stepped between his cousin and his friend, pleading quietly, "Please, Harry, don't!"

"Please, Harry don't." The mimicking voice that issued out of his mouth was so bitter and angry Harry almost didn't recognize it as his own. "Keep your dog on a shorter fucking leash, then, _Dudders__, _and I won't have to – "

The fist connecting solidly with his lower back knocked the wind out of Harry. Tears sprang to his eyes; he blinked against them furiously as he whirled on one of the two goons accompanying Piers and Dudley, a boy nearly his cousin's size but much more muscled than Dudley, who had snuck up behind him. Fury clouded out reason in Harry's mind. What kind of coward attacked from behind?

_A coward like Voldemort.__ A coward like Malfoy. A coward like Peter Pettigrew. They don't fight like me and Sirius – they couldn't take him face to face, they can't take me face to face…_

In a flash, Harry was back in the Ministry of Magic, standing beside a veil and quailing in shocked horror as he realized Sirius wasn't going to step around it. He closed his eyes for half a second, forcing air back into his bruised lungs, and lunged forward, fists flying.

His furious attack caught the other boy off-guard. He fell hard, grunting as the air left his lungs in a painful whoosh, but Harry showed no mercy: He struck out with his foot and kicked his felled enemy hard in the ribs. The boy curled in on himself. Before Harry could gloat over this victory, however, the other goon stepped forward; Harry ducked, but the punch caught him on the side of the head, a glancing blow that nevertheless knocked him off-balance and burst stars in front of his eyes. From the corner of his vision he saw Piers, bloodied but infuriated, shoving Dudley aside and rushing at him.

_So it's two on one, is it? _Harry shook his head and smiled grimly, feeling the same cold calm that had descended on him when he last faced Voldemort. _All right, you motherfuckers, let me show you what I'm made of._

"Ouch!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have to stop the bleeding!"

Harry winced as Quinn pressed the cold, damp rag to his cheek again and held it there firmly. He hurt all over – his scraped and bruised knuckles, his lower back, his busted lip, his bloodied nose, his lacerated cheek. Piers and his two buddies had done a number on him, that was for sure. And although Harry had given as good as he got (he was proud to say), if it hadn't been for the pool manager breaking up the fight (and kicking them all out), he knew he would have been hurt a lot worse.

As it was, he was going to have some explaining to do when he got home. He only hoped his aunt and uncle remained wary enough of his wizard protectors not to ground him for _too _long.

"How's your nose?"

Gingerly, Harry slid his fingers across his upper lip. They came back clean. "It's quit bleeding," he replied, and squeezed the bridge of his nose gently. It hurt, but not unbearably. "I don't think it's broken."

Quinn sat back on the bench – they'd stopped outside a convenience store a few blocks from the pool, which was where Quinn had picked up bandages and a rags she'd soaked in a water fountain – and eyed him skeptically. "You know," she said impassively, "I hope you didn't think any of that impressed me back there."

A flash of anger shot through Harry. Who did she think she was, anyway? "Yeah, well," he shot back hotly, "as I recall, I'm not the one who started it."

Nonplussed, she replied, "I don't recall asking you to punch anyone in the face."

He colored slightly. Now that the anger was ebbing and the soreness was setting in, he was, quite honestly, feeling a bit foolish. But pride dictated that he at least make Quinn admit her role in the fiasco – after all, _he _had been perfectly content to leave the bullies alone in the first place. "Right," he said sarcastically. "You really expected them to run away just because you told them to leave that girl alone."

"No, I expected them to leave her alone and dish out their crap to _me. _And _I'm _not bothered by it."

Harry opened his mouth, realized he had no come-back, and closed it again, torn between shame and fury. Okay, so Quinn had seemed unruffled by Piers's insults. But still, what did she think he was going to do, stand there and let some asshole say terrible things about her? For Christ's sake, every time Draco Malfoy just looked crossways at Hermione, he wanted to rip his simpering blonde head off –

_This isn't Hermione. This is Quinn. Why does she make you think of Hermione so much?_

"Listen." Quinn was dabbing at his lip again, a bit more gently now. In spite of his pain and anger, Harry felt a tell-tale tickle deep down in his gut – she was _awfully _close to his mouth. "I know it's a testosterone thing or whatever – you have to defend my honor because it's, like, an evolutionary response or something." Harry grinned, then winced at the sharp stabbing pain in his bottom lip. "But seriously, I wasn't trying to get you into a fight. I'm sorry if you thought that."

"Weawy shat's otay."

Quinn giggled and took the rag away from his mouth. "What was that?"

Testing the cut with the tip of his tongue, Harry repeated, "I said, that's okay, really. It was a dumb thing to do, hitting Piers like that."

"Yes, it was." She agreed readily enough, but her contagious smile was back. "And it wasn't cool or sexy or chivalrous or anything." He was nodding along with her, feeling a bit dizzy again as her eyes zeroed in on his mouth and her voice took on a husky, teasing note. "I'm not one of those girls who's swept off her feet by a really cute guy getting his ass kicked to defend my honor…"

She had shifted closer on the bench, and Harry felt as if the air was being sucked away from him. "Like I said," he managed to mutter, "really dumb…"

"Really dumb," she murmured back.

_Bloody hell, she's going to kiss me…_

His eyes closed automatically as her lips drifted closer, closer, closer – and finally connected with his. He forgot about the pain in his back and nose; he forgot about the ridiculous fight he'd just been in, and the trouble he would inevitably be in when he got home. He lost himself in Quinn's soft lips tasting his, her small hands resting tentatively on his knees, her warm shoulder rubbing against his, her silky hair tickling his arm.

This was different than kissing Cho. Scarier, yes, but also better; Quinn tasted like peppermint, not salty tears, and the ghost of Cedric Diggory wasn't shoving in between them (metaphorically speaking, of course). He found the courage to slip one arm around her waist, urging her closer. He hoped this was how kissing was done, that he wasn't making an idiot out of himself…He really needed to concentrate, but he felt so – so _light-headed…_

The scar on his forehead prickled. Harry's eyes flew open, half-expecting to see Voldemort striding across the quiet, orderly street toward him, but instead all he saw was Quinn's beautiful face, so close he could count the freckles on her nose.

She seemed to sense the change in him and drew back, smiling with shy uncertainty. Harry, for his part, immediately forgot his scar – the pain had been momentary, after all – and realized he was unable to stop a huge, goofy grin from spreading across his own face. Quinn giggled, but not maliciously; he knew at once she was happy, not making fun of him.

"That was _not _a reward for making an ass out of yourself back there," she declared, without much conviction.

"Okay."

"And if that manager keeps me out of the pool all summer, I'm going to be extremely peeved at you."

"Okay."

"And you're a really excellent kisser."

"Okay."

"Harry!" She laughed and swatted his arm. "Can't you say anything else?"

"Yes." He wrangled his stupidly-wide grin under control and took a deep breath. "You're…you're a really excellent kisser, too."

Quinn smiled and settled back onto the bench. "So, has your cousin always been such a jerk? No offense."

"None taken. And yes, pretty much." Harry cringed, recalling Dudley's infamous temper tantrums and his delight at seeing Harry mistreated at home and at school. "We're not close, as you might have noticed."

"I did." A frown creased her pretty face. "He seemed…I don't know…a little frightened of you." Harry looked away, embarrassed. At the time he hadn't really considered what Piers's insults would sound like to Quinn – like he was some kind of psycho, basically. "What's St. Brutus's?"

"Oh. It's…" Harry fumbled for words. The last thing he wanted to do was tell her he went to a school for criminally insane boys, but how could he tell her the truth?

_You don't have to tell her the truth, Harry. But you can be inventive about the lie._

Blessing his inner voice – he wished it would come in as handy when he was staring certain death in the face – he said carefully, "Dudley told some people that I go to this school, St. Brutus's, for 'juvenile delinquents', I think is your American term. His friends like to spread that rumor around."

To his relief, Quinn accepted that unquestioningly. "What a bunch of assholes. But…" Her face clouded with suspicion again. "What did Piers mean, you'd cast a _spell _on me?"

Harry briefly fantasized about wiring Dudley's jaw shut. How could the big oaf be so careless with Harry's secret? If Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon ever found out their son was blabbing the truth about him all over town – hey, now _there _was a valuable piece of information! Actually, that was the only thing Harry could imagine his aunt and uncle's "little Dudders" ever being in real trouble for.

But Quinn was waiting for an explanation. The truth perched on the edge of Harry's tongue: _"You see, I'm a wizard.__ No, a real one, not like in the movies. I go to this school called Hogwarts…"_

Right. And ten seconds later, Ministry of Magic officials would descend on them and cart him off to Azkaban, but not before performing a memory charm on Quinn so she wouldn't even recall _meeting _a Harry Potter, most likely.

"I – I used to keep Dudley from beating up on me by telling him I could do magic." Surprised by the explanation tumbling from his lips, Harry pressed on before inspiration left him. "It was really stupid, I know, but we were just little kids. And…and so when he told his friends about it, they laughed at him for being scared of me, and then it became this _thing_, like they would tell people I really thought I was a…a. wizard."

_Oh, for fuck's sake, someone shoot me now – that was the dumbest lie ever…_

"Sounds like Dudley and his friends need to get lives. Seriously."

A huge sigh of relief nearly escaped from Harry. Quinn was smiling again, thoroughly convinced by his story. She stood up and reached for his hand; rather shyly, Harry slipped his fingers into hers, victory surging through him and making him light-headed again. "Well, now that you've got us kicked out of the pool for the day, why don't we go catch a movie?" she suggested.

Harry nodded weakly. "Sounds great."

As they started off down the street, Quinn kept her fingers linked snuggly with his. By the time he dropped her off at her door late that evening, he had worked up the courage to kiss her again – a sweet, soft, lingering affair that left them both rather breathless and flushed. He watched her disappear inside and couldn't even force himself to be nervous about what punishment Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had cooked up for his fight with Dudley's friends; it was nearly eleven o'clock, and Harry felt sure Dudley had already told _his _version of the story, which would be the only one the Dursleys were interested in anyway.

His steps drug as he approached the door. What an amazing day with Quinn! Their kiss on the bench; a really good movie; dinner at this little diner, where she'd spoon-fed him part of her chocolate malt; a long, winding walk through the streets back toward Privet Drive…If he did end up grounded for a while, he hoped she wouldn't find some _other _boy to hang out with.

And, to his relief, his scar hadn't so much as tingled since the morning. The last thing he needed was Voldemort causing problems on Privet Drive. Keeping the truth from someone he liked as much as he was starting to like Quinn wasn't going to be easy anyway; if the Dark Lord decided to make a guest appearance, it might be damn near impossible.

_And what if he tried to hurt Quinn? He took Sirius from me – maybe he's after everyone I care about…_

The unsettling thought stopped Harry dead in his tracks. Before he could spin around and rush back to warn Quinn that if a man named Voldemort came looking for her she was to run away as fast as she could – _like she's going to believe you, Potter, you dumbass _– a cloaked figure stepped out from the bushes surrounding Number Four Privet Drive. Harry's heart nearly stopped in his chest.

_Not here – please, no, not here!_

But the voice that issued forth from the shadowed face was not Voldemort's. "Hello, Harry," Remus Lupin said, smiling benevolently as he stepped into the glow of the street light. "I see you've found yourself a girlfriend." __


	3. A Visitor

**Chapter Three**

Lupin and Harry sat down on the sidewalk with their backs against the fence surrounding Number Four, Privet Drive. Obviously sensing Harry's reluctance to discuss his "girlfriend," Lupin asked, "Where'd you get the fat lip?"

Cringing – he somehow knew his former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher wouldn't approve of using fists to confront a Muggle enemy – Harry briefly relayed the story of his fight. He ended with a gloomy, "I'm sure Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are spitting mad at me."

"Not really," Lupin countered evenly. "I was just inside, and nobody said a word about a fight."

Harry vacillated between shock that Lupin had been _inside _the Dursleys' home and bewilderment that Dudley hadn't tattled. Or maybe he'd been afraid to in front of Lupin?

"I thought your aunt and uncle might need reminding that you're being watched over," Lupin explained. "And I wanted to ask them about allowing you a guest for the summer – provided you agree, of course."

A guest? So Lupin was staying? And if he was – did that mean Voldemort was loose here in Little Whinging? Suddenly chilled, Harry managed through numb lips, "Y-you? But why?"

"Oh, no, not me, Harry. I may be unemployed – strictly speaking, of course, since the Order doesn't give salaries – but I'm not homeless. Yet." Lupin grinned wryly. "No, Harry, your visitor would be Hermione."

_Hermione?___

On the one hand, Harry was relieved; clever as she was, Hermione wouldn't be posted as his bodyguard if the Dark Lord was stomping around the neighborhood. On the other, however, he was abruptly torn: With Hermione here, how could he spend time with Quinn?

It seemed a silly fear, he realized. Quinn didn't strike him as the jealous type – unlike Cho, she probably wouldn't burst into hysterical tears if he made plans with Hermione. And, being girls, he assumed Hermione and Quinn would have fun together. Not to mention that Hermione, raised by Muggles like Harry, probably had some tips for acting normally around her old non-magic friends during the holidays. So why did he feel like he had to choose between the two of them, instead of being delighted to spend his summer with one of his best friends and a girl he was really beginning to like?

_Maybe you like both girls, and that's the problem…_

Harry stamped on that thought. He and Hermione were friends and only friends – nothing more.

Lupin looked perplexed by Harry's solemn silence – understandably so. Forcing a cheerful smile into place, Harry said brightly, "Sure! Of course I want her to visit. Would it be for the whole summer? Is Ron coming, too?"

"She'd be here for most of the summer, I expect. And…uh, Molly isn't ready to let any of her chicks out of the coop just yet."

Harry shuddered as he recalled Voldemort's near-fatal attack on Mr. Weasley _and _the danger he'd put Ron in on their "rescue mission" to the Ministry of Magic. No wonder Mrs. Weasley wasn't ready to have her children far away from her, let alone staying with the one person they knew Voldemort wanted dead!

But the Weasleys' safety brought to mind another question – one Harry asked with a dry mouth and hammering heart: "Are…Are you…Is the order still…staying at Sirius's house?"

At Sirius's name, raw pain flashed across Lupin's face. "I can't tell you that, Harry, you know that." He cleared his throat and visibly composed himself. "Anyway, Hermione's grandmother is quite ill, and the Grangers had intended for her to stay with Molly while they took care of her. But Hermione suggested coming here instead. She thought you might be lonely."

Harry colored a bit under Lupin's teasing smile. Sweet Hermione – always worried for him, especially now, after Sirius…

Shoving sad thoughts aside, he asked, "So what'd the Dursleys say? Can she come?"

"Well, I think they realized I was more here to _inform _them of your guest's arrival than to ask their permission." They shared a grin. "Naturally, I also explained that Hermione grew up in a 'regular' house, and that they won't incur any expense on her behalf, and that you two won't make any trouble." Lupin looked rather sternly at Harry's cuts and bruises. "They seemed all right with it, I suppose."

So, Hermione was really coming. For the first time in the conversation, Harry felt a tingle of excitement about her visit – truth be told, even with Quinn, he _was _a bit lonely, because no one on Privet Drive had known Sirius or cared about his death. It would be nice to have Hermione to talk to, to share his memories with.

Lupin rose. "I should be getting back. Hermione's parents are bringing her here the day after tomorrow." He paused, scrutinizing Harry. "How are you?"

The simple question, loaded with meaning, nearly reduced Harry to tears. How was he?

_I miss Sirius, I'm half-mad with grief, I can't believe I was stupid enough to fall for Voldemort's trick…_

Unsure why he couldn't share any of this with Lupin, a trusted friend and probably the person who had known Sirius best since James died, Harry struggled to keep his voice and face impassive. "I'm okay. And you? How are…things?"

"About the same. A bit more hectic now that the word is out, but it's also swelled our ranks. Dumbledore's in control, as always." Lupin smiled tiredly. "I really have to get back. You take care of yourself, Harry."

"I will."

Lupin retrieved a broom Harry hadn't even noticed from inside the gate. "No more fights," he cautioned, as he climbed onto the broom. "Save your anger for where it matters. And," he grinned wickedly, "show that beautiful lady of yours a good time, huh?"

Harry barely had time to blush before Lupin pushed off from the ground and disappeared into the night sky.

"There's a message for you. That ruddy bird nearly dropped it in my tea."

Ignoring Uncle Vernon's grousing, Harry silently took his envelope upstairs. Neither his aunt nor uncle had mentioned Lupin's visit, Hermione's impending arrival or the bruises on Harry's face; in fact, they had both made a pointed effort not to look at him. The puffiness around Aunt Petunia's eyes made Harry wonder if they had been fighting again.

Upstairs, Dudley's door was closed, but Harry heard the TV on inside. Why hadn't Dudley told on him for the fight? Was he too afraid of being cursed for causing his cousin trouble? Had he told and the Dursleys were too frightened of repercussions to punish him?

Or, was Dudley's silence because he, like Harry, sensed the tension between Vernon and Petunia and didn't want to cause further trouble?

Sighing, Harry shut his bedroom door and flopped onto the bed. Hedwig hooted at him from her cage. "I'll have a letter for you in a minute," Harry promised her. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope – Hermione's. He had a feeling she was going to expect a response.

Ripping open the letter, he read:

_Harry –_

_I hope your aunt and uncle agree to let me come and we aren't getting you in any trouble. My grandma is in the hospital and Mum and Dad think it would be better if I wasn't there._

_When you get this, send me a reply with Hedwig so I know you're okay. I'm sorry Ron can't come. I'm bringing this really great book Mum bought me, Keeping Your Magic Sharp On School Holidays. It has lots of great ideas for practicing 'magic' without violating the Statute of Secrecy or the Restriction of Underage Wizardry. I think we'll really be ahead of everyone else in the fall if we practice over the summer, don't you?_

_Please take care of yourself._

- _Hermione _

Sighing, Harry crossed to his desk and flopped down in front of a blank sheet of paper. He wasn't as excited about Hermione at the prospect of studying their entire holiday away – after all, Hogwarts teachers always gave them homework over the summer break, although he suspected Hermione already had hers done – but he figured he could distract her from it once she arrived. No, what he was really worried about, what was making composing his reply so difficult, was Quinn: Did he mention her now, or wait until Hermione was here?__

Harry chewed on his pen cap. Why was this so confusing? He'd never thought of Hermione as a _girl _– well, not really, anyway. She was pretty, really pretty sometimes, and they got on fabulously, most of the time. He suspected Ron had a crush on her. Was it possible that he, Harry, had a crush on her, too? He'd never found it difficult to discuss his relationship with Cho with Hermione, or to hear about Hermione's pen-pal status with Victor Krum, but…__

_But I'm ready to kill whenever Draco sneers at her. And no matter who else is there, whenever we're in danger, I'm always more worried about her than anyone else. That's just because we're friends, though – right?_

Heaving yet another sigh, Harry dropped his forehead onto the desk. He was tired, and his body ached thanks to the fight he'd so stupidly gotten in. What he really wanted was to crawl into bed and day-dream about kissing Quinn. __

_Then stop being silly and write this letter, _his inner voice ordered.__

Resolutely, Harry put pen to paper and scribbled:__

_Hermione,_

_Lupin__ was here, and no, the Dursleys aren't mad at me. They said it'd be fine for you to come. I'm really excited to see you._

_The book sounds interesting. I'm sure we'll go swimming and stuff, too. I think you'll really like my new neighbor, Quinn. She's American and we've been hanging out._

_See you soon,_

_Harry_

He read and reread the letter, trying to determine if it sounded all right. In the end, he decided to wait until morning to send it – he could read it again with fresh eyes and a fresh mind after he had some sleep.__

Ignoring Hedwig's reproachful look, Harry opened her cage and carried her to the window. She pecked at his hand imploringly, as if to say, _Where's__ the letter? _"Be back by morning," he instructed. "I need some time to think about this one. Go have fun."__

Contented, Hedwig soared out into the night. Harry cast one more uncertain look at the letter on his desk before falling into bed. Maybe he'd sleep off whatever craziness this was, and awake without a gnawing sensation of guilt in his gut for writing to Hermione about his new girlfriend.__


	4. Sweet Dreams

**Chapter Four**

Harry drifted into a deep, deep sleep.

He was standing in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but all of the tables had been removed. Aside from the twinkling nighttime stars reflected in the ceiling, the room was completely dark. Somewhere, an invisible violin was playing a slow, mournful tune.

Suddenly, out of the darkness where the teachers' table usually sat, two filmy figures materialized. Harry strained to see them in the blackness.. As he watched, the figures became more solid, and gradually he realized he was staring at two beautiful girls in silky, flowing red gowns: Quinn and Hermione.

They approached him slowly, with graceful, almost dance-like steps. Quinn's dress brought out the flame color of her hair; Hermione's accentuated the darkness of her brown eyes. Although they walked side-by-side, the girls never looked at one another – their eyes were fixed on Harry, and on both of their mouths played sensual smiles that made him weak in the knees.

When they finally reached him, Quinn on his right and Hermione on his left, they slid their hands up his arms and tugged him out into the center of the room. Harry's breath was coming in short gasps; he felt a tell-tale stirring down low in his stomach, and glancing down, he was surprised to find his tee-shirt and jeans had been replaced by emerald green robes that matched his eyes.

"Dance with me," Quinn breathed in his ear, pulling him gently away from Hermione. Harry suffered a moment of panic – he didn't know how to dance! – but before he could stammer an apology for his awkwardness, he was gliding easily across the floor with Quinn in his arms. He sighed happily as she settled her head against his chest. What guy could be luckier?

"Kiss me," she breathed, this time against his neck. Harry dipped his head and brought his lips to hers, surprised by how confident he felt. Their kiss was searing, without any of the innocent sweetness he'd known today; he half-gasped, half-moaned as her tongue pushed past his lips, combing roughly across the inside of his mouth. He gripped her waist to pull her tighter but his fingers kept slipping on the delicate material of her dress.

_Harry…Harry, not her, Harry, dance with me…_

At first, he thought he was having a dream inside a dream – a dream of Hermione calling to him while he was dreaming of kissing Quinn. Then he became aware of Hermione's hands on his shoulders, turning his dream-self away from Quinn. He started to protest until he saw how radiant she looked, bathed in a slit of silver moonlight and tilting her chin up invitingly to his.

"Dance with me, Harry, dance with me," she whispered sweetly, and he did. Once again, he found that he could guide her expertly around the floor. Laughing in surprise, Hermione taunted, "You said you couldn't dance!"

"I can't," he replied. "I think I'm dreaming."

"Shh." Melting into him, Hermione rested one finger against his lips. "I like that you dream about me, though…Kiss me, Harry…"

"But-but we're just friends," he protested weakly. Her finger was doing incredible things to his bottom lip, and he very much wanted to see if her mouth would feel as good as Quinn's against his.

She nuzzled his neck with her nose, and he was lost. "It's just a dream, Harry," she reminded him softly. "Just a dream…"

It was his turn to silence her, this time with a kiss. He was instantly aware of how different she was from Quinn: Hermione was star-light, Quinn was flame. Dimly, he realized the comparison didn't make much sense, but he couldn't really think with Hermione's hands tangling in his hair to urge him closer, her teeth biting gently into his lower lip, her slender body molded against his. A moan escaped him as his hands circled her hips; he was surprised to find her solid and willing, not slippery and elusive like Quinn.

They were sinking to the floor. Harry, almost lost in passion, was nonetheless vaguely aware of quiet sobbing behind him Wrenching himself away from Hermione, he twisted around to see Quinn standing helplessly nearby, tears streaming down her pretty face.

"Harry," she cried. "It was supposed to be me! You're supposed to fall in love with _me_!"

Hermione's grip tightened on his upper arms, and abruptly, her voice held a cold warning. "You're mine, Harry. Don't trust her. You're mine, and I'm yours, and _that's _how it's supposed to be."

For one agonizing moment, Harry was impossibly torn between the beautiful girl reaching out for him and the beautiful girl holding desperately onto him. Just when he knew he couldn't possibly choose between them, a horrible, blinding pain shot through his scar. He released Hermione with a scream and toppled backwards, falling – falling – falling…

"AAAAGGGGHHH!"

Harry woke with a start as his already-sore body landed hard on his bedroom floor. He lay trembling, covered in cold sweat, for a full minute before he realized he was still safely inside his aunt and uncle's house on Privet Drive, not in the Great Hall at Hogwarts facing…facing…

_Facing what? An impossible decision between two amazing girls?_

_No. No, that pain, that had nothing to do with Quinn or Hermione. It was…It had to be…_

Voldemort.

No getting around it – Harry had only experienced pain like that in the presence of the Dark Lord, whether Voldemort was actually in the room or, worse yet, attempting to possess him. Still shaking, he crawled back onto the bed and burrowed under the covers. He needed to write Dumbledore, or Lupin, or someone in the Order, he knew, but first he needed to calm himself down.

And what was he supposed to say in this letter? _"Dear Professor Dumbledore: I was having a wet dream about Hermione Granger and this girl you don't know, Quinn, and then I had a pain in my scar. Much love, Harry."_

Well, obviously not. But he did hope no one in the Order would ask him exactly _what _he'd been dreaming when he experienced the pain. Somehow, Harry didn't think he could ever live down the humiliation.

Feeling a bit steadier, he got up, keeping a blanket wrapped around his shoulders (he was unusually cold), and sat down at his desk. He was surprised to find it was nearly dawn. Hedwig should be back soon from her hunt, and then he could send these letters with her. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Harry wrote:

_Professor Dumbledore,_

_ I hope Hedwig finds you quickly. I had another terrible pain in my scar tonight. I think Voldemort may be close. _

_ Sorry to bother you,_

_ Harry_

Rereading the letter, Harry nodded with satisfaction. He'd had enough of keeping secrets from Dumbledore and the Order; in the past, he'd been afraid of alarming anyone unnecessarily, but losing Sirius had taught him an invaluable lesson: He couldn't handle Voldemort on his own, and the people fighting the Dark Lord needed any and all information Harry could give them, even if it was nothing more than a pain in his scar. He sealed the letter and set it aside, awaiting Hedwig's return.__

Then he turned to the letter for Hermione. Even though he was alone, Harry blushed as he recalled his dream with uncanny clarity – how small Hermione had felt in his arms, how sweet and firm her lips had been against his, how hungrily her hands had curled into his hair…It was like she was starving for him, like she'd been waiting forever for him to kiss her. A familiar tickle shot through Harry's stomach and he rubbed furiously at his temples, as if that could erase the images from his dream.__

Apparently, he had a crush on Hermione. Okay, so he really should have known that all along, instead of refusing to think about it every time a tender feeling for his best friend rose up inside his chest. And now he was in a predicament, because he didn't want to hurt either her or Quinn, but he couldn't decide which one he really wanted to be with.

And, of course, he couldn't be sure Hermione returned his feelings – she'd never let on if she had a crush on him, at least. Should he ruin what was starting between he and Quinn until he knew how Hermione felt, if she felt anything at all? But (and here was the real rub) how was he supposed to find out how Hermione felt? He couldn't imagine _asking _her – how mortifying if she looked sadly at him and said she only thought of him as her friend!__

_Why not wait until Hermione gets here to tell her about Quinn? Then you can gauge her reaction, see if she's jealous…_

Harry found himself nodding along with the small voice inside his head. He didn't know when he had become so devious – thinking up such plausible answers to Quinn's queries yesterday, and now this – but he was glad he had. Crumpling his first letter into a ball, he tore out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote:__

_Hermione,_

_Can't wait to see you.__ The Dursleys weren't mad at me, so don't worry. We're going to have a great summer._

_See you soon,_

_Harry_

As he reached for the envelope, Harry experienced a brief twinge of guilt. He was playing with fire here; either Hermione or Quinn one were bound to get hurt if he wasn't honest (or as honest as he could be) with both of them right from the start. But the hesitation lasted only a moment. He would sort it all out once Hermione arrived – it wasn't like he wasn't _ever _going to tell her about Quinn, he just wasn't going to do it in a letter.__

Hedwig landed on the window sill and hooted a good morning to him. Before he could change his mind, Harry sealed Hermione's letter, grabbed the other one and tied them both to Hedwig's leg. "Give that one to Dumbledore and the other one to Hermione," he instructed her, stroking her snowy feathers. "And be careful."__

Hooting cheerfully, Hedwig turned and soared back out into the sky. Harry stood staring after her for a long while, hoping he'd made the right decision. The morning air felt heavy with impending rain.

He had a feeling another storm was on its way.__


	5. Half Truths

**_Author's Note: Sorry this update took a while. I saw the new movie and wanted Harry to myself for a little while! evil laugh Hope it was worth the wait. Oh, btw, the coolest people in the world read my story. Thanks so much for the reviews!_**

**Chapter Five**

Harry spent a nervous morning mentally rehearsing how to tell Quinn about Hermione. Everything he came up with either sounded too evasive – _"No, really, she's just a friend" _– or too intimate – _"She's my best friend, you wouldn't believe some of the things she's seen me through." _Aunt Petunia kept watching him warily as he paced back and forth from his bedroom to the living room.

The only comment his aunt made about his busted lip and bruised cheek was, "I don't want to hear about you getting into any trouble, understand?" From that, Harry surmised that Dudley really hadn't mentioned their scuffle at the pool.

By noon, however, Harry was starting to wonder whether he was going to get the opportunity to tell Quinn about Hermione. He'd assumed she would come over early, like she had the day before; as the minutes ticked nearer to midday, he began to wonder if he'd somehow screwed things up with her. Was he a terrible kisser? Had she met another boy? Did she think he was a huge nerd and had only been nice yesterday so she didn't hurt his feelings?

Finally, as Aunt Petunia started putting lunch on the table, Harry flopped onto the sofa. It was no use worrying about it. Obviously Quinn wasn't coming –

He nearly jumped through himself when the doorbell rang. "I got it," he assured his aunt as he dashed out of the living room.

Sure enough, Quinn was standing on the front step, looking prettier than ever in a tight black tee-shirt and tattered denim shorts. But Harry knew at once that something was wrong. Her eyes had lost some of their sparkle, and judging from her slightly swollen cheeks, she'd been crying a lot.

"Hi," she began bravely.

He closed the door behind him as he joined her on the stoop. "What is it?"

Quinn's attempt at cheerfulness crumpled immediately under his concerned gaze. "It's…it's nothing. Stupid, really. Just a-a fight with my mom, so what else is new…"

"Hang on." Ducking back inside the house, Harry called into the kitchen, "I'm going out, Aunt Petunia! Back later!"

Petunia poked her mousy face around the kitchen doorway. "All right. But be back by supper. Your uncle wants a word with you about tomorrow."

About Hermione, of course. Harry sighed inwardly. Had he really been foolish enough to believe the Dursleys _wouldn't _have a list of rules as long as his arm governing his and Hermione's conduct? He was certain the very first one would be: _No mention of the M-word in this house!_

Quinn didn't seem eager to talk, so they walked in silence toward the park on Magnolia Road. Harry couldn't think of any place more exciting to go. Just a fight with her mother, she'd said, but she seemed unusually upset by it – he couldn't even be worried about broaching the subject of Hermione when she looked so miserable. He only hoped he'd know what to say when (or if) she decided to start talking. His failed relationship with Cho had made him wonder if he was an insensitive creep.

The park was strangely empty for noon on a gorgeous summer day. As they settled into swings, Harry considered remarking on this. He even opened his mouth to speak before he realized how lame it would sound – _"So, wow, a bit odd that no one's around, isn't it?"_

_Real smooth, Potter.__ You're definitely a ladies' man. Bloody idiot!_

"I'm sorry to be such a bore."

Quinn spoke so softly, and he'd grown so accustomed to the silence, that Harry almost missed her words. He offered her an encouraging smile. "You're not boring," he assured her. "Just upset. Would…ah…would you like to talk about it?"

She shrugged. A tendril of strawberry-colored hair slipped loose of her ponytail and brushed her cheek. Harry's stomach flipped over as he remembered how silky her hair felt against _his _cheek –

_Focus! Focus, Potter! It's just like Quidditch – keep your eye on the ball!_

"There's not a lot to say," Quinn said, obviously lying. Harry stayed quiet. He knew how it felt – god, did he know how it felt – to have so many emotions stirring around inside it was impossible to pick one to explain. "We've never gotten along, Mom and I. Dad was…He and I were close. She was always gone. She has this 'really important job'" – her voice dripped sarcasm on that phrase – "writing articles for a fashion magazine. She spends most of her time in Tahiti and Monte Carlo and Paris. And now that she has Aaron, it's just that much worse."

A few years ago, Harry wouldn't have been able to understand _wanting _a parental figure around. If the Dursleys decided to spend the summer holidays on vacation and left him at home, he would have been ecstatic – and that was still true, of course. But Sirius had been different. Even though they didn't always see eye-to-eye on everything, Harry had missed his godfather and wished life were different so they could be together more often.

"Go on," he urged, since Quinn looked uncertain whether he was actually interested in her problems.

She watched her sandaled toes drag through the dirt. "She doesn't understand why I didn't want to move here. She thinks I should want _her _life – exotic places, famous people, expensive hotels. But I-I'm not her, Harry. I was happy in Orlando. I had wonderful friends there, really sweet people who love me. And my dad was there. Our house. That's where all my memories of him are. Sometimes I think that's really why she wanted to come here. So she could forget him."

_Memories…Forget him…_

Harry's heart lurched in his chest. When Quinn had mentioned her step-dad, he'd assumed her parents were divorced. But the way she was talking now…

Was her father dead?

His mouth felt suddenly dry. All of his life, he'd never had to explain to anyone that he was an orphan. Dudley, in their elementary school years, had paraded that fact around as if it made his cousin some sort of freak; at Hogwarts, of course, everyone knew how James and Lily Potter had met their end. His heart broke for Quinn, carrying around all that pain and having no visible sign – no lightning-shaped scar – to tell people without words what she had suffered.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly. Quinn nodded but kept her eyes averted. He had a feeling she was close to tears. "How, uh, how long has it been?"

"One year this August."

Not even a year, and her mom was remarried? Harry sensed a deeper bitterness than simple mother/daughter issues. "That must be really hard," he said, searching for something – anything – to fill the awkward silence.

_Oh, brilliant, Potter, _his inner voice sneered. _Of course it's really hard! __Moron__!_

"Aaron's okay. And things weren't exactly great between Mom and Dad be-before…" She tucked the stray piece of hair behind her ear and looked at him for the first time in the conversation. "You're being really nice to me, Harry, and I appreciate that, but it's okay if you'd rather I found a good psychiatrist to pour my issues out to."

"Oh, right. I'd rather you found someone _else _to talk to."

_I am an idiot. I am a big, stupid, smelly, ridiculous ninny –_

But Quinn was grinning. Despite the blush consuming his face, Harry knew it had been the right thing – and what was more, the honest thing – to say. "Well, I promise not to harp on the subject. I just…I just miss him a lot. Somedays are harder than others."

The knife of grief that always hovered near Harry's heart plunged in deep at her words. How incredible to find someone who could voice what he was feeling so perfectly! Somedays he could go for hours without thinking of Sirius; others, the specter of his godfather seemed stationed at his elbow, popping up no matter how hard Harry tried to ignore him. Somedays the memories were happy; others, they were too painful to tolerate.

Could he tell Quinn any of that? Could he share with her what he had lost – his parents and Sirius – or would she think he was weak? Worse, would she think he only cared about himself, and wasn't interested in her pain?

She had pushed off the ground and was swinging slowly back and forth. Knowing he needed to say something, Harry settled on, "What was he like? Your dad, I mean."

She slowed to a stop. Her eyes took on a dreamy, far-away quality. "He was a doctor. Not just a doctor, though. A pediatric oncologist."

Kids with cancer. Harry was duly impressed and said as much. Smiling, Quinn went on, "Yeah, he was fantastic. His patients adored him. He worked a lot – like, ridiculously a lot – but he always had time for me. We went on walks and picnics. He taught me how to surf. I was – am – terrible at math, and he would always find time to sit down and help me, no matter how exhausted he was from being at the hospital. And he never missed one of my gymnastics meets."

"You're a gymnast?"

"I was. Back home. Not anymore." She ducked her head, absorbed in her toes again. "That was how – I mean, when – he died. Driving up to Savannah for one of my competitions."

Once more, her words had the impact of a sucker-punch to Harry's gut. To carry around the guilt of her father's death…Didn't he, Harry, carry around the weight of his parents' sacrifice, of Sirius's sacrifice?

"I know how you feel," he began slowly. The look Quinn shot him said she doubted it. Coloring a little (he was afraid he couldn't tell her about Sirius without crying, and that would be too humiliating), he pushed on, "I…my…I lost my parents, when I was just a baby. It was an…accident."

_It was murder. It was murder because of me, because of some stupid prophecy. I wish I could tell you that…_

He went on, before she could interrupt with the perfunctory condolences, "I mean, I don't have many memories of them. I have some pictures. My aunt and uncle never talk about them, my mum and dad, so I never knew much about them. And then, a couple of years ago, I met one of their old friends. He-he was my godfather, actually. Having him was…Well, it was a bit like having my dad back, you know?"

Quinn was watching him now with tears brimming in her eyes. It was her turn to encourage him. "Go on."

To Harry's relief, the threatening tears receded as he filled up with the warmth of Sirius's memory. "It was wonderful. We were the best of friends. He was everything I know my dad had to be – strong, brave, smart, caring. I was supposed to go live with him, leave the Dursleys forever, but...a couple of months ago he was…killed. He died. And it was sort of my fault."

"Oh, Harry." Quinn reached over and seized his hand. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

Never in his life had Harry more seriously considered throwing caution to the wind and revealing his world – the wizarding world – to a Muggle. The only thing that held him back was not fear of punishment but fear of endangering Quinn. Instinct told him she would believe him, and that simply by knowing about Voldemort she could become a target.

So instead, he squeezed her hand and smiled sadly. "Yeah. Funny how we can know that and still feel guilty, though, huh?"

She blew out a slow, shaky breath. "Yeah. Exactly."

They sat in silence for a long while, holding hands and swinging slowly. Harry even forgot to be self-conscious about his sweaty palm. It was so comforting to have someone who could truly understand, who had suffered a loss as eviscerating as his.

Finally, Quinn pulled herself out of her reverie. "Look at us," she laughed. "Sitting here absolutely miserable on a beautiful day. Do you want to go get a coffee or something?"

Recalling his disastrous Valentine's Day coffee date with Cho, Harry suggested, "How about a milkshake?"

"Great idea. It's stifling out here."

Quinn kept hold of his hand as he got to his feet. All feelings of comfortable companionship dissolved into a storm of excitement and anxiety when she stepped closer, her mouth curving into a soft smile. "You're, like, the sweetest guy I've ever known, you know that? And at the same time, the strongest." Her fingertips brushed the bruise on his cheek, and they shared a private grin. "I feel safe with you, Harry. Safer than I've felt in almost a year."

He tried to think of an appropriate response that didn't involve a great deal of stammering. But the next moment her lips were on his, and he couldn't have found a single intelligible reply if his life depended on it.

Quinn and Harry spent a wonderful day together. Cooped up on Privet Drive every previous summer, he'd never realized how much there actually was to do in Little Whinging; within walking distance of the Dursleys' house was a quaint shopping district with a movie theater, a music store, a coffee shop, an ice cream counter and a bookstore.

He and Quinn ate chocolate malts in the air-conditioned relief of the ice cream shop. Then they wandered through the music store – he was pleasantly surprised to discover Quinn was a huge fan of British punk bands – and compared notes on the best albums of all times. Over coffee (yes, he finally worked up the nerve to try another coffee date) Quinn told him all about her gymnastics, her girlhood dream of being a professional figure skater, and her friends back in Orlando.

Harry knew, as the conversation progressed, that eventually she was going to ask about _him. _And the talk of old friends inevitably reminded him that he had yet to tell her about Hermione's visit.

"Well, I think that's my life story," Quinn finally laughed. She stirred sugar into her third cup of coffee. "So, Harry, what about you?"

_Here goes…_

"Uh, like I said, I go to boarding school. It's co-ed. I'll start my sixth year in September."

"What's boarding school like? Not that I'm loving the home life or anything, but it seems weird to spend most of the year at school."

Harry tried to find a way to explain Hogwarts without mentioning the moving staircases, the talking portraits, or the magic lessons. "Uh, well, it was weird, at first. I mean, like you said, life at home wasn't anything I was really going to miss, but…Well, we have dormitories. The school is in this old castle, and we're separated into what they call 'houses,' which are like our families. I'm in Gryffindor…"

Over the next hour, Harry was astonished at how easily he weaved around the real truth of Hogwarts. He told her about Snape, who became his "chemistry" teacher; about his Defense Against the Dark Arts club, which became his "martial arts" club; about playing for Gryffindor's Quidditch team, which became the "soccer" team. And of course, he told her about Hagrid, Filch, Dumbledore, the Weasleys (especially Ron), Malfoy and – at last – Hermione.

By the time her name came up, Harry felt uncomfortably disconcerted by his ability to bend the truth. He'd never considered himself a deceitful person. Obviously, if he'd been able to tell Quinn the truth, he would much rather have done that. It was just…

_It's just, I don't feel even a twinge of guilt about lying through my teeth to her. When did lying become so easy?_

"Wow, your school sounds amazing." Quinn reached across the table and linked her fingers through his, smiling contentedly. "I almost wish I could go there instead of St. Mary's."

Harry's heart jumped. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Quinn did have some magic blood in her? What if she got her Hogwarts letter next week? Surely it could happen – he didn't know any American wizards, so maybe the States were too new to have magic schools –

Even as he fantasized about it, however, he knew it wasn't possible. Without being able to explain how, he knew Quinn was Muggle through and through.

Feeling the happy bubble around his heart begin to deflate a bit, Harry realized it was time to stop avoiding the subject he'd managed to steer clear of all day. "Um, Quinn, there is something I've been meaning to tell you."

Her fingers went rather limp in his. Her smile faltered a bit. "Okay."

"You see, it's Hermione." Harry's stomach twisted into a hard knot. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering where the ability to lie had gone. "She, uh, well, she's like my best friend at Ho- at school. Besides Ron, of course."

Quinn was nodding and smiling, but she'd gone rather pale. "Right. Oh, okay, I get it."

_Get it? _"Wha-?"

"It's okay, Harry. You've been really nice to me, and, well, _I _did start the whole kissing thing, not you. I mean, you're so cute and so sweet, and obviously incredibly popular. It was really stupid of me to assume you didn't have a girlfriend."

_A girlfriend?__ Oh, bollocks…_

"No!" Harry was almost laughing with relief. "No, Hermione isn't my girlfriend."

A flash from his dream rose wickedly up to taunt him, but he shook it off. After all, it was _only _a dream, and even if he did have a crush on Hermione, she certainly wasn't his girlfriend.

"That's not it at all. I just wanted to tell you that her grandmother is very sick, and her parents asked my aunt and uncle if she could spend the rest of the summer with us, so she doesn't have to hang around the hospital and all that. She's arriving tomorrow and I just wanted you to know, so it wasn't a big surprise or anything."

Quinn couldn't seem to control the smile that spread across her face. Harry loved the way her freckles stood out when she blushed. "Oh. So, yeah, that was me, jumping to conclusions."

"That's okay. I wasn't being very clear."

"Well, I wasn't being very fair." She took his hand again; her thumb slid along his wrist, sending shivers down to his core. "I should have known you're not like that, Harry. Not the sort of person who would two-time anyone. I'm sorry."

He couldn't have felt smaller if she'd hit him with a shrinking charm. Because wasn't that what he was doing – enjoying his time with Quinn until Hermione arrived and he saw how she felt?

_So stop it, _his inner voice piped up calmly. _You might have a misguided crush on Hermione, but think how that could destroy your friendship – yours and Hermione's if things soured, and yours and Ron's since you know he has feelings for her. Quinn is right here, right now, and you know how she feels, and how you feel about her. Be the man she wants you to be, Harry. _

_Be true. _

_Be hers._

It was as if someone had lifted a huge weight off of his shoulders. "It's fine," he assured Quinn. "I'm just glad you aren't upset about her visiting. For a while I was dating this girl, Cho, and she sort of went…weird…whenever Hermione was around. Like she wasn't okay with me being friends with her."

_Way to leave out 99% of the truth on that one, Potter! Aren't you forgetting the little complication of her dead boyfriend…?_

"You know, I hate girls like that. Jealous girls." Quinn grinned cattily at Harry as she stood up. "I always figure, if you aren't confident in your ability to hold onto your man, you aren't doing something right. Besides," she leaned in close, so close he could almost taste her lips, "if anybody else wants you, they're going to have one hell of a fight on their hands."


	6. Arrival

**Chapter 6**

Hermione arrived at precisely 8:30 the next morning, just as planned. It was Saturday. Harry's aunt and uncle had gotten up earlier than usual to whisper darkly over coffee. When the Grangers pulled into the drive, Harry – who'd been lying awake since daybreak – raced downstairs to answer the door. He was afraid a few minutes alone with the Dursleys might dissuade Hermione's parents from letting her stay.

Hermione pecked Harry on the cheek by way of hello, making him blush. She looked very pretty in plain jeans and a white tee-shirt – though he tried not to notice.

"Glad to see me?" she asked pertly.

Harry's heart did a funny jump. Yes, he was glad to see her – more than he should have been. Forcing a natural-looking grin into place, he replied, "'Course."

"Nice shiner," she added, grinning at the bruise on his cheek.

"Long story," he replied, then took her suitcase from her and, with some trepidation, quickly introduced the Grangers to his aunt and uncle.

The greetings went surprisingly well – and fast. Mr. and Mrs. Granger seemed too distracted to notice Aunt Petunia recoiling from Hermione's offer of a handshake or Uncle Vernon's suspicious questions about their dental practice (like he thought they were disguised wizards). After leaving emergency phone numbers, the Grangers kissed Hermione goodbye and hurried back to their car.

"Let's go upstairs," Harry suggested the moment the car left the drive. Nodding, Hermione started up. Harry was detained momentarily by Uncle Vernon's hissed warning to remind her of the "rules." Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione didn't need reminding to obey the rules – he, however, was uncertain how to explain their sleeping arrangements.

Hermione was petting Hedwig when he closed the bedroom door and deposited her suitcase on the bed. He couldn't help feeling nervous; being alone with Hermione in his _bedroom _had odd implications. Ones he hoped she wasn't picking up on.

_When did she start wearing lipstick? Or are her lips always that pink?_

_Hold up there, Potter. That way lies madness…_

"I hope I didn't make things worse for you with your aunt and uncle by coming."

Hovering by the bed, the safest distance he could put between them until he reined in his rampaging hormones, Harry attempted a natural-looking smile. "Don't worry about it. I mean, it can't get much worse between us."

"But still." She came closer, watching him curiously. "They, uh, they seemed even less friendly than usual down there."

Harry shrugged. "They hate how much more freedom I have now, that's all. Coming and going when I want, communicating with other wizards, doing my schoolwork out in the open – well, up here in my bedroom, at least." They shared a smile. "They just preferred the old way, when I slept in the cupboard with the spiders."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "You slept in a cupboard?"

Blushing, Harry laughed, hoping she'd think he'd only been joking. "Uh, listen, speaking of sleeping…You see, my cousin, Dudley, _refused _to share a room with me. He threw this incredible tantrum and so, ah, Uncle Vernon said that he didn't have to. Share a room with me, I mean. So, um, I'm going to take the floor, in here, and you, uh, you can have the bed."

_Brilliant, Potter. Absolutely bloody brilliant. Could you have stammered a bit more? Blushed a bit brighter? Bloody hell…_

His heart sank as Hermione started to shake her head. Of course – obviously she wouldn't be comfortable sharing a room with him! How ridiculous of his uncle –

"Harry, don't be silly. No one is sleeping on the floor all summer! We're practically adults. I think we can share a bed."

His mouth flopped open stupidly and his face (if possible) flamed brighter. "Uh…Are you sure?"

"Positive." She gave him such a warm, reassuring smile that Harry knew her thoughts weren't where his were – the feel of her back against his, the smell of her hair on his pillow, the brush of her hand against his cheek in the night…

_Quidditch! Think about Quidditch! Or Snape! Or anything non-sexual! _

Luckily, Hermione had turned to unpack her suitcase and didn't notice the embarrassing evidence of his train of thought. "But don't mention it to Ron, would you? He was upset enough that I wasn't spending another summer at the Burrow. I think he's gotten used to having me all to himself for a couple of months – well, not counting his rather large family, of course."

Surprised by her off-handedness, Harry rejoined, "So you'd noticed he sort of has a thing for you, huh?"

"Yes."

Her tone left no room for interpretation about her feelings on the subject. Harry couldn't help being frustrated by this. He did notice, though, that she rather purposefully kept her back to him as she carried an armload of clothes over to his wardrobe to hang up.

"Anyway, I know he'd like it best if he were here or we were there. The holidays are so weird, aren't they? I almost wish we didn't have them."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, imagine that, Hermione Granger wishing school went year-round."

She stuck her tongue out at him. Harry laughed, relieved that the earlier tension (of _all _kinds) seemed to have dissipated. It was just Hermione now, his good friend Hermione, with no awkward subtext.

Well, not much, anyway.

After they hung up her clothes and put her school trunk next to his at the foot of the bed, Harry tried to think of a diplomatic way to bring up Quinn. It seemed rude to rush her right over to a stranger's house when she'd only just arrived. Since he'd already asked about her grandmother and immediately intuited that she didn't want to talk about it, he settled for the other burning question on his mind: "Have you talked to anyone in the Order lately?"

"Not other than Lupin, no. And he's not exactly a fount of information."

Hermione settled onto the end of his bed, sitting cross-legged. Harry sat with his back against the headboard, elbows braced on his knees, toes nearly touching hers. He ordered himself not to think of physical contact with her as she went on, "But I've been getting the _Daily Prophet_ and the whole wizarding world is terrified over Voldemort's return, now that it's common knowledge. And of course the school letters didn't help."

"School letters?" Harry felt a weird tightness in his chest, like he'd been running a long ways. "What school letters?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Your aunt and uncle didn't get one?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean, they didn't mention it. And trust me, if a Hogwarts letter came for Uncle Vernon, he'd definitely tell me about it. It'd be all I'd hear about for weeks, probably."

Hermione looked perplexed and a little distressed. "But Harry, they must've gotten one. Dumbledore had a letter sent to every Muggle-born student's parents, explaining about You-Know-…I mean, about Voldemort's crimes, and what his return means to our world. I know your parents were wizards, but your aunt and uncle would have been sent one, I'm sure of it. Professor McGonagall said the Board of Governors thought every parent had the right to be informed, so they could decide whether to send their children back to school in September."

The tightness turned to an icy coldness encircling Harry's heart. Not only was the thought of parents removing their children from Hogwarts unthinkable – and he imagined as many wizarding parents as Muggles would seriously consider it in light of Voldemort's return – but the tension between his aunt and uncle was starting to make a weird kind of sense.

Voldemort had slaughtered his parents specifically to get to _him, _Harry. Dumbledore had sent him to the Dursleys specifically because they were his family – his blood – and therefore afforded him a certain amount of protection while he was in their home. But, and even the magic-hating Dursleys would have deduced this, that same protection didn't extend to Vernon, Petunia, or Dudley.

He was putting them in danger by being in their house. He supposed this had always been true; surely in the letter Dumbledore left on the doorstep with him 16 years ago he had explained the horrific nature of Voldemort and his followers. But at the time Voldemort had been practically destroyed, too weak to hurt anyone. Now he was back in business - and followed by a cadre of dark wizards who loved hurting Muggles.

Did the Dursleys want him out of their house, as far away from them as possible? Or – and this was the part that froze his blood – were they afraid he'd be killed if they sent him back to Hogwarts?

For the first time, Harry was torn between wanting the Dursleys to wish him ill (and thus send him back to Hogwarts on the first train) and wanting them to care enough about him to keep him on Privet Drive.

Hermione looked as if she suspected at least some of what he was feeling. "No one's mentioned it at all?" she prompted. "They haven't talked about you leaving or not leaving?"

Rather numbly, Harry shook his head. "Not a word. And you? How'd your parents take it?"

A strange smile played on her face. Twisting a raveling from his bedspread around her pinkie, she answered, "They were frightened at first. I mean, I've told them about Voldemort and things that have happened at school, but I didn't exactly go into great detail about the more dangerous situations." They grinned knowingly at one another. "When they first got the letter I thought they might not let me go back. I was really upset about it. But…Then McGonagall came to my house."

Once more, Harry's mouth flopped open. "No way! Really?"

"Yeah." Hermione turned slightly pink. With a gulp, Harry realized for the first time how pretty she looked when she blushed – quite like Quinn, actually...

_Quidditch, Potter, _his inner voice howled. _Think about Qudditch! _

He forcibly tuned back in as Hermione went on, "She had tea with my mum and dad and told them that I'm…well…She said I was 'gifted' and it would be a shame not to finish my education."

Know-it-all or not, Hermione wasn't a braggart. Harry, however, was undeniably impressed. "She's right," he insisted, surprised (and a bit embarrassed) by how huskily sincere his voice sounded. "You really are incredible."

In a split second, the atmosphere of the room went from comfortable and friendly to super-charged and crackling. Hermione's dark eyes crashed into his; feeling his face heat up (and the rest of him, too), Harry struggled for the self-control not to spring forward and capture her mouth under his.

_So pretty. So delicate. So smart. So caring. That's Hermione – my Hermione._

He prayed those thoughts weren't written across his face. The moment held interminably, a live-wire of unexpressed emotion stretching between them. Finally, when he knew he couldn't possibly go another second without blurting out everything he felt towards her – although, to be honest, he wasn't exactly sure what he was feeling – Hermione blinked and looked down.

"Well, she didn't use that word – 'incredible,' I mean. But it meant a lot to me that she came."

Blood still pounding in his ears, Harry managed calmly, "And your parents agreed to send you back?"

"Actually, they said it was up to me." A note of pride rang in her words. He couldn't blame her. The Grangers had always struck him as wonderful people, and apparently, they were truly remarkable parents as well. "I promised them I'd be careful, but I also told them that Hogwarts is where I belong. I barely even know how to function in the Muggle world anymore."

Harry drew in a deep breath. The little voice inside he was coming to rely on so was whispering that he'd never find a more perfect segue into introducing Hermione to Quinn. Besides, considering the strange moment that had just passed between them, he knew he needed to apprise her of his romantic status _fast. _

As conversationally as possible, he said, "Yeah, I know what you mean. I usually live for September. This is the first summer I've even really left the house. But, uh, I actually, sort of, this summer I've…met someone. A girl someone, I mean."

Did he imagine the flicker of distaste in her eyes? Or that her upper lip curled in slightly around a sharp intake of breath?

"So…you and Cho are totally over, then?"

_Cho? She thinks I still want to be with Cho? _

Trying not to be disappointed by her blasé reaction to his girlfriend news, Harry worked the irritation out of his voice before answering. "Oh, yeah. Completely. That was too complicated. In a lot of ways."

She nodded. While her words were pleasant enough, she still seemed guarded. "So tell me about her. The 'girl someone,' I mean."

Leave it to Hermione to be inscrutable when he most wanted to read her feelings. Frustrated with her for being unreadable and with himself for still caring how she felt, he tersely filled her in on meeting Quinn, concluding with, "She thinks Hogwarts is a regular boarding school. I hate lying to her, but I can't tell her the truth."

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears. She looked as if she were weighing her words carefully. "Have you, um, mentioned her to anyone else? Like Ron? Or Lupin?"

"Not Ron. I sort of did to Lupin. He saw me with her."

"And…Lupin thought everything was okay?"

_Ah, of course._

Harry couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to think Hermione's reaction had anything to do with her feelings about him - or lack thereof. She wasn't upset about him having another girl in his life; she was worried about him trusting a stranger.

Sighing, He snapped (a tad more harshly than he intended), "She's not a Death Eater, Hermione. I know it might seem like a miracle, but somebody could be interested in me without it having anything to do with Voldemort."

Hermione looked shocked. "Harry! You know I didn't mean – "

"Whatever." He drug a hand through his hair and glared obstinately at her.

_You should have known, _his inner voice chided. _Hermione's your friend and only your friend. She doesn't care who you date. She doesn't see you as smart or handsome or interesting – you're just Harry to her. _

Well, fine. But he wasn't about to submit to a lecture on the possible dangers of being Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, now that Voldemort had made his return debut.

Hopping off the bed, he informed her brusquely, "I told Quinn I'd bring you over to her house once we got you settled in. It's fine if you don't want to go, but I want to see her."

"No, it's okay." The quiet sadness in Hermione's voice sliced through the biggest part of Harry's anger. She kept her eyes averted as she stood up and smoothed her hair into place. "I'd like to meet her."

_Stop being an ass, Potter! She's your friend, she's seen some pretty awful things courtesy of Voldemort, of course she worries about you!_

_Not to mention her grandmother is dying…_

Softening, Harry instinctively reached out and squeezed her hand. Eyes over-bright from threatening tears, Hermione looked up at him and said, "I didn't mean – "

"I know." His hand was tingling from the contact with hers, much as he tried to ignore it. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I mean, I know what you meant. But I can't live my life like that, Hermione, thinking everyone I meet might be out to get me. They have special padded rooms for people like that."

"I understand. I really do." She blew out a shaky breath and smiled bravely. "All right. Enough of that. Let's go meet your girlfriend."

It was only later that Harry would realize Hermione never let go of his hand until they reached Quinn's front door.

_Author's Note: Hope this was worth the wait. My fantabulous betas saved me from falling into a plot-hole from which there was no rescue! If you're considering hitting the precious purple button named "review," I'm worried about my pacing. Is this too slow? Too fast? Are you bored or confused? Criticisms always welcome! Love to you all, my dearies!_


	7. First Impressions

**Chapter 7**

Harry's concerns about how Hermione and Quinn would hit it off were allayed almost immediately. Quinn seemed genuinely excited to meet Hermione, and after giving them a quick tour of the house – which looked remarkably like Number Four, except for the stacks of unpacked boxes – she offered to let Hermione borrow one of her swimsuits so they could go to the pool.

"I think I've got a brand-new blue one that'll fit you perfectly," Quinn told her as the girls ascended the stairs, leaving Harry in the foyer below. "You're like, what, a size four?"

"Yeah," Harry heard Hermione answer. He took solace in the pleasantly surprised tone of her voice.

Quinn had told them that her mother and Aaron were in the Bahamas for the weekend, doing some photo op for the magazine her mother worked for. "Typical Mom," she'd laughed. "Not even unpacked and already on another plane. We should've rented hotel rooms and saved ourselves the mortgage."

While the girls changed clothes, Harry wandered around the living room. Besides the boxes (he couldn't imagine Aunt Petunia living amidst such clutter, though he found it rather charming), the one glaring difference between Number Four and Number Six Privet Drive was the absence of family portraits. Aunt Petunia's favorite décor item was her Ickle Duddey-kins; the Dursleys' house was full to bursting with pictures of Dudley at all ages. Apparently Quinn's mother didn't possess such picture-loving genes – or else the family photos were still tucked away in the moving boxes, which Harry supposed was entirely possible.

"…and so we got kicked out of the pool." Quinn's voice floated down to Harry as the girls reemerged at the top of the stairs. "But I'm hoping they'll let us back in today. Don't you think they will, Harry?"

Stepping around the corner of the staircase, Harry started to say he doubted the pool manager would bother them so long as Dudley's gang wasn't there itching for another fight, but he stopped short and stared. Quinn, as always, looked devastating in a yellow sundress that hid her black bikini; her silky hair was piled up in a loose bun on top of her head. And Hermione…

Obviously, given his dream a few nights before, Harry was capable of thinking of Hermione as a girl. But at Hogwarts, he rarely had the opportunity to see her dressed as one. Now, she stood before him in an ice-blue bikini with her thick, wavy hair spilling around her shoulders, and try as he might not to stare, he had the horrible feeling that his mouth was hanging wide open. Hermione's cheeks turned a becoming scarlet and she hastily slipped a white tee-shirt dress on over her head. She avoided his eyes while she descended the stairs.

Finding his voice, Harry managed, "I, uh, I think we'll be okay. As long as Dudley and his idiot friends don't start anything else."

"You think they'll be there?" Quinn didn't sound worried, just mildly curious.

Even as Harry said he doubted it – he'd overheard part of Dudley's phone conversation the night before, and Piers had some new video game they were all planning to spend hours playing – he secretly hoped they were. Not that he wanted another fight. He just wanted to see the looks on Dudley and Piers' faces when he showed up with not one but two beautiful girls on his arm.

Quinn slipped her hand in his as they left the house. "How're the fat lip and black eye feeling?" she teased, winking over her shoulder at Hermione, who was trailing a few steps behind.

"Better, thanks. I take it you heard the full story?" he said to Hermione, who nodded.

Before he could feel a twinge of anxiety about how left-out Hermione looked, Quinn casually uncoupled from him and hung back to walk with her. Harry waited, too, and soon the three of them were strolling along the sidewalk, Harry in the middle, discussing the differences between America and England and the best new movies coming out that summer.

They spent most of the day at the pool. Quinn, as it turned out, wasn't much of a swimmer; she mostly sat on the edge with her toes in the water, routinely slathering on sunscreen to protect her fair skin, and offering to get refills on their sodas whenever they ran low. Hermione, on the other hand, was a surprisingly strong swimmer. Considering how much time she spent buried in a book at Hogwarts, Harry was startled by how in-shape she was. The two of them raced the length of the pool several times. She beat him nearly every time, with Quinn cheering her on madly and teasing Harry mercilessly whenever he lost. They took turns diving off the highest board, trying to out-do one another with fancy flips. Quinn judged them by writing their scores in red lipstick on her hand.

By  late afternoon they were all starving. They ate at the diner Quinn and Harry had discovered; feeling like quite the lucky guy, he insisted on paying. Once more he was surprised but pleased by how naturally conversation flowed between the three of them. The girls chatted about hair color and make-up, then switched to topics he could join in on, like soccer (turned out Quinn was a fan) and music. They discussed their favorite books (like Hermione, Quinn seemed to be a voracious reader), and Hermione did an excellent job of answering Quinn's questions about boarding school without once mentioning the magical nature of Hogwarts.

When Hermione went to the ladies' room after dinner, Quinn leaned over and rested her head on Harry's shoulder. "She's a doll. I wish I could meet the rest of your friends, if they're all like her."

Harry laid his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. What he wouldn't give for a few minutes' privacy right now… "Thanks for making her so welcome," he said quietly, meaning it.

"Hey, it's not like it's hard. She's cool." Quinn sat up and smiled into his eyes. Although kissing her was becoming a fairly common occurrence, he still felt a tingle of nervous excitement in his stomach as she leaned in close and brought her lips to his.

It was like falling and being caught at the same time. She tasted of strawberry milkshake and smelled of chlorine; weirdly, Harry couldn't think of a more satisfying combination. Just as he was certain he was drowning in her, losing touch with reality as completely as when he'd had the Impediment Curse performed on him, Quinn pulled back.

"Wha-?" he started, baffled.

She inclined her head toward the restrooms, from which Hermione had just emerged. Squeezing his fingers under the table, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "Don't worry, Harry. Mum and Aaron are gone for the whole night, remember? We'll have the house all to ourselves."

Harry was glad Hermione reached them at just that second so he didn't have to respond. But he spent the rest of the day (they wandered through the music shop and then went bowling, which turned out to be a blast) with a knot of nerves in his stomach the size of a boulder.

_"Mum and Aaron are gone for the whole night…" _He wasn't too thick to know what that implied. Or was he? Surely Quinn didn't expect to – well, he had trouble even thinking it – to have sex when they'd known each other only a week!

Or did she?

_American girls, _his inner voice chimed in. _You know what they say about American girls!_

By the time the three of them strolled back to Number Six Privet Drive around ten o'clock, Harry was so preoccupied he found making normal conversation difficult. Part of him hoped Hermione would want to come inside with them, or that her being there would give him an excuse not to go into Quinn's house at all. The other part of him – and the part his sixteen-year-old sensibilities told him he should be listening to – couldn't wait to be alone with his girlfriend.

_Will I know what to do? What if I'm totally wrong and she was just joking? Or what if she wants to do something but not, well, not THAT – will I know what to do?_

He was so focused on torturing himself with those kinds of thoughts that he almost missed Hermione saying, "I'm really tired, Harry. I'm going to go back to your aunt and uncle's and take a shower."

They were standing in front of the gate that led up to Quinn's front door. "Uh…yeah, okay," he stammered. Quinn had nonchalantly taken hold of his hand. Hermione was already slowly backing away. "Do you, uh, want me to come with you?"

Hermione smiled. Was it his imagination, or did it look a little forced? "I think I can find my own way two doors' down, thanks," she said, so normally he decided he had to have imagined the tenseness in her smile. "It was so nice to meet you, Quinn."

"Totally," Quinn chirped back, her face lit up by a grin. "We'll do it again tomorrow, okay?"

In what seemed like a second, Hermione had disappeared down the sidewalk and Quinn was leading him through the front door and into her dark, empty house. "Lemonade?" she asked airily over her shoulder.

He hesitated by the door as she made for the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went. He followed her slowly, almost reluctantly, his heart pounding and his palms sweating.

_Why does everything with girls have to be so complicated?_

"I noticed Hermione didn't talk at all about your godfather."

Quinn's mention of Sirius stopped Harry dead in his tracks beside the kitchen table. She had her back to him at the counter, where she was filling two juice glasses with cold lemonade. "I thought you said she knew him?"

"Yeah. She did." He accepted the glass from her, but his lips felt too stiff to drink. He had difficulty forming words. Two seconds ago he'd been wondering if he would be decent in bed – now, he was talking about Sirius. The switch knocked him irretrievably off-kilter. "Why?"

"No reason, really. I mean, she probably just thought I didn't know about him."

Harry managed a tiny sip of the lemonade. It was bitter, but it gave him an excuse not to talk. He wasn't sure if he was annoyed with Quinn for bringing up Sirius or relieved that she didn't want to make out.

She went on casually, "People were like that about my dad, though. My friends, I mean. Like everybody was afraid to mention him. Like they thought I'd go to pieces if I even heard his name."

_Why are we talking about this? _Harry wondered. But he told himself not to be an insensitive jerk – after all, he'd apparently reacted badly whenever Cho brought up Cedric, and he didn't want to make the same mistake with Quinn.

"I think it's hard for people," he agreed. Even as he said it, he couldn't help thinking about how awkward Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley – everybody, really – had been around him since Sirius died. Warming to the topic, he went on, "I mean, nobody really talks about Sirius. They just ask if I'm okay."

"Exactly. It's not the same. Because, like, after a while, you're supposed to just answer 'yes,' right? Nobody grieves forever, right?"

Harry found himself nodding, startled by how insightful Quinn was. He hadn't for a second considered telling either Lupin or Hermione the truth – that the grief he felt for Sirius was as raw at that moment as it had been the moment he lost him.

"But then it's like, how do you even talk about the person who's gone without everybody assuming you're not 'handling' things or whatever?"

"Yeah. Absolutely. Even people who knew Sirius, like Ron and Hermione, it's…it's weird."

Quinn set her juice glass down on the counter, crossed to him and took his hands in hers. "I'm glad I have you to talk to," she said softly.

Harry, heart hammering again and just as nervous as when he walked through the front door, started to say that he was glad he had her, too. But Quinn seemed out of the mood for talking. She stretched up on tip-toe – he hadn't realized how much taller he was than her until that moment – and kissed him.

Her kisses felt decidedly different than before, he noted, slipping his arm around her waist to steady her as she leaned into him. She pressed harder against his lips than usual. While he was still adjusting to that (and realizing how much he liked it), her tongue darted past his lips. Harry's breathing increased two-fold. She playfully slid her tongue along the inside of his lips, tickling him; when he retaliated by pushing his tongue against hers, she half-giggled into his mouth and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair, pulling his face down closer to hers.

_She tastes like – cinnamon. Why? Oh, who cares why, damn she's amazing – amazing amazing amazing…_

Vaguely aware of the cacophony of thoughts racing through his head, Harry allowed Quinn to push him back against the wall. Her mouth slid away from his and onto his neck, where her warm lips sent delicious tingles through every nerve in his body. She nipped his earlobe; sucked on the sensitive skin beneath his chin; flicked her tongue across his collarbone. When she leaned back, tilting her head to the side to reveal her graceful neck to him, Harry – breathing fast and ragged – immediately accepted the invitation, eager to make her as weak-kneed as he felt.

Beneath the faint, tangy chlorine scent she smelled of vanilla – her soap, he surmised, nuzzling the curve of her neck with his nose. He heard her breath catch in her throat and tightened his grip on her waist. He was afraid, yes – afraid he wouldn't know what to do, that he'd make a fool of himself somehow. But more than that, he wanted to kiss her, touch her, feel her, taste her. A fierce desire the likes of which he'd never known uncoiled inside of him, and he had to force himself to be gentle as he drug his lips across the smooth, freckled skin of her throat. What he really wanted was to push the sundress off her shoulders, find out what else that bikini was hiding, feel the lithe firmness of her slender body under his –

_Ring. Ring-ring. Ring. Ring-ring. Ring._

The jingling of the telephone barely registered in Harry's fogged mind. He knew Quinn either didn't hear or chose to ignore it; she framed his face with her palms, silently urging him to keep going. He dipped his head again, wondering with a sudden panic what she would do if he did slide her dress straps down off her perfectly-rounded shoulders.

Well, only one way to find out…

Two things happened in the next second that brought Harry to a screeching halt. First, Quinn's fingertips brushed the scar on his forehead and a bolt of excruciating pain shot through his head. At the same instant that he gasped and jumped back, a woman's voice filled the silent house as the answering machine picked up.

"Quinn, honey," the voice said, "it's Mom, baby. Just seeing if you're okay. Listen, I know you were mad about us leaving this morning, but – "

Oblivious to Harry's pain, Quinn pulled away and sprinted across the room to answer the phone. He was glad she had her back to him so he could clamp his hand over his scar and squeeze his eyes shut tight against the lingering after-effects of the momentarily blinding pain.

_Voldemort__.__ Could Voldemort be here, now? _

_Or is he just getting some disgusting rush off of my – whatever – arousal?_

This was a dilemma Harry had never foreseen, despite knowing that he and Voldemort shared a powerful connection. Was Voldemort laughing himself silly somewhere right now, amused by the reckless, sloppy passions of a sixteen-year-old wizard? Harry felt his face heat up even as he imagined it. And what was worse, how was he supposed to _ask _anyone? He couldn't face the embarrassment of admitting to Dumbledore that making out, in his dreams or in reality, seemed to cause his scar to hurt.

Quinn had said a few terse words to her mother and now turned back to him, looking sheepish, as she hung up the phone. "Okay, so, not how I pictured this evening going," she admitted lightly. "Man, how horrifying! My mother calls while I'm making out with my boyfriend!"

To Harry's surprise – and relief – she suddenly giggled. "God, when I heard her voice, I thought she was _here, _in the room! And the way you jumped!"

Although that had nothing to do with the phone call, Harry wasn't about to tell Quinn that he'd had a terrible pain in his scar while kissing her. He couldn't possibly explain that in a way that would make him sound like anything other than a mental patient. So he offered a smile he didn't feel and lied, "Yeah. I thought we'd been caught."

Quinn walked over and kissed him softly on the cheek. "You're so handsome," she said, making his face heat up again. "But look, Harry, I mean…I hope you don't think I'm some kind of slut who hops into bed with a guy she barely knows."

_Mmm__ – is there a safe answer to that question?_

"No! I mean, we were just…kissing. That's a long way from, you know, anything else."

_Shoot me. Shoot me now…_

"Yeah. But it felt like it could have, you know, been more than kissing. Quickly." They shared a rather awkward smile. "And I was really only teasing this afternoon, about having the house all to ourselves. I just didn't want you to have the wrong impression of me."

She laughed again before he could say anything. "And wow, now I am so making myself sound like the queen of mixed signals!" She brushed her fingers down the side of his face, making him shiver. "Things are a little messed up for me right now, Harry. I don't mean to be all over the place. I hope you're not, like, ready to never see me again or something."

She looked so anxious, and that thought had been so far from his mind, that Harry answered automatically, "Of course not!" She looked skeptical, so he took a breath and went on more honestly, "I, you know, I kind of wondered if you were serious about your parents being gone and-and…everything. But well, I got a little carried away, too."

_Bloody brilliant, Potter, you fuck-head! Why not admit that you're afraid  to have sex? __Moron__! Idiot! Ninny!_

_VIRGIN!_

Harry waited in miserable silence for her to decide he was a complete ninny and tell him to leave. True or not, he didn't know any guy his age who didn't claim to always be ready – more than that, eager – to jump into bed with a pretty girl. And Quinn was more than pretty; she was drop-dead gorgeous.

_She's probably had really experienced boyfriends, not big pansy morons like me. God, I must look so ridiculous to her –_

But Quinn was smiling and looking much more at ease. "Well, so, yeah, I think we can both agree that we have some serious physical chemistry," Harry blushed but nodded, "and we need to be much more practiced at self-control before we're alone in a dark, empty house again. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Because," she stepped up to him and slid her arms around his neck, "I really like you, Harry, and I don't want to mess this up. At all."

His knees went weak again. "No. Yeah. Absolutely." She cocked an eyebrow quizzically, and he managed to laugh at himself. "I mean, what you said."

Quinn giggled. They kissed a bit more – softly, on the mouth, hands chastely on hips and shoulders – before she told him good night. As he walked back to Number Four, Harry couldn't wipe the enormous grin off his face. Nor could he think clearly about the possible implications of the pain in his scar. He was simply too happy.

Hermione was already in bed with the lights off when he slipped inside, careful not to make any noise that might wake his aunt and uncle. The last thing he wanted was a run-in with the Dursleys about curfew. He changed into his pajamas in the darkest corner of the bedroom and then, feeling nervous again, eased in beside Hermione.

His bed was small, but it fit two people relatively comfortably. At least Aunt Petunia had thought to bring him an extra pillow, although she had put it on the floor, where she assumed he would be sleeping. Luckily, the Dursleys weren't brave enough to come snooping in his room anymore; he doubted even the threat of wizards' curses would have kept Aunt Petunia from blowing her top if she discovered her nephew sleeping in bed beside a girl.

"Harry?"

Thinking she was asleep, Harry almost jumped out of his skin when Hermione said his name. "Yeah?" he managed, sounding as anxious as he felt.

"Quinn seems really nice."

He was glad the bedroom was dark and she was facing away from him so she didn't see how deeply he blushed. "Yeah. She's great." He hesitated, waiting for her to speak again. When she didn't, he added, "Uh, thanks for, you know, being so friendly with her today."

But whether Hermione heard him or had already drifted off to sleep, he couldn't be sure, because she didn't reply. Harry lay awake for quite a while, torn between memories of Quinn's soft lips and an almost uncontrollable longing to roll over and drape his arm around Hermione's small form.

And though she didn't make a sound or move a muscle, he had a sneaking suspicion that Hermione was awake, too. But what thoughts were keeping her from sleep he could only guess.


	8. Everything Changes

_Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took, like, forever! I had the worst case of writer's block in the history of the world. Okay, maybe not that bad, but bad. Anyway, I am back on track now – the next chapter is already in the works! The fate of Harry, Hermione and Quinn should be complete by the time the Hogwarts train leaves on September 1. (big grin) Love to you all – please please review!_

**Chapter 8**

The next two weeks passed quite pleasantly for Harry. It became routine for he and Hermione to show up at Quinn's around mid-morning – they all enjoyed sleeping in – and for the three of them to spend the afternoon and evening swimming, going to a movie, browsing the record store, playing soccer, eating ice cream or hanging out in Quinn's air-conditioned living room listening to music. Harry was always surprised that none of them ever seemed bored or tired of one another.

Hermione never showed any emotion when Quinn slipped her fingers into Harry's or snuggled close to him in the theater. The girls seemed to be becoming good friends; if Hermione had any reservations about Quinn, or if she harbored any jealousy over the situation, she hid it well.

Harry couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed by her acceptance.

Every night, usually around ten-thirty or eleven, Hermione would make some excuse – being tired, wanting a shower, needing to read for school – to return to the Dursleys'. That left Harry and Quinn alone for an hour (sometimes more). Harry always left with his lips slightly chapped from kissing and his body tingling from Quinn's touch. After that first night in her kitchen, they were both careful to keep their hormones in check, but Harry couldn't deny that as the days passed he was caring less and less about taking things slow.

He supposed what stopped him from asking Quinn to go "all the way" – he really hated that phrase, but everything else seemed either mushy or crass – was Hermione. He had in his mind an image of her lying awake in his bed all night, knowing why he hadn't returned from Quinn's. Aside from the natural embarrassment of facing her the day after he lost his virginity, Harry wasn't sure why that image bothered him so much.

Or – and this felt closer to the truth when he allowed himself to think it – he wasn't ready to admit to himself _why_ it bothered him so much.

Because as the days passed, despite how wonderful being with Quinn was, Harry couldn't help that his feelings for Hermione were shifting steadily from a harmless, ignorable friendship-crush to a deep-seeded, ever-present longing that felt like much more than simple infatuation. He tried not to let himself think about, mostly because Hermione didn't seem to notice the change in him or to experience any change in her feelings toward him. But in the moments when it caught him off-guard, like when she laughed at one of his jokes in his dark bedroom while the rest of Number Four Privet Drive was sound asleep, he could almost believe he was falling in love with her.

The next moment he would tell himself to stop being a ninny. Falling in love with Hermione didn't make any sense when she apparently saw him as nothing other than her best friend (and really, his inner voice would lecture him, wasn't that quite enough in itself?) and he had a gorgeous, clever, fun-loving girlfriend who adored him.

And so the summer continued with little to distinguish one day from the next – except, perhaps, that Harry's pile of holiday schoolwork never seemed to diminish no matter how much he worked on it. After returning from Quinn's each night he would join Hermione in plodding through their homework; she seemed to be making much more progress than he was, but then, Hermione always had been a better student and she did get a nightly head-start while he was, well, _preoccupied _with his girlfriend.

Their sixth year promised to be the hardest one yet, if the holiday assignments were any indication. Truthfully, Harry was relieved Hermione was staying the summer, because otherwise he might never have struggled through the complicated essays Snape and McGonagall had assigned. Ron certainly didn't seem to be fairing too well on his own; every few days brought another owl from him, and each letter contained a desperate plea for help understanding some passage or spell.

Although Harry and Hermione each wrote to him regularly (Harry let her handle the homework questions), neither mentioned Quinn. Harry knew this because he always sent the letters back with Pig, Ron's owl, in the mornings while Hermione showered. Even though he knew it wasn't right, he skimmed her letters to see if she had mentioned his new girlfriend. He couldn't decide why he wasn't telling Ron himself – normally, he would have been thrilled to report that a gorgeous girl had fallen head-over-heels for him – but he knew he didn't want Ron to hear about Quinn from anyone else.

He also noted that neither her nor Hermione mentioned their sleeping arrangements to Ron. It was as if they had an unspoken pact that these last few weeks of sleeping side-by side, drifting off listening to one another's breathing and waking up with their legs tangled together under the covers, would be their secret. Harry hadn't mentioned it to Quinn, either, for obvious reasons. He sometimes wondered how he would go back to sleeping alone after Hermione left – her presence was oddly comforting and undeniably exciting at the same time.

Waking up beside Hermione every morning continually drove home the point that whatever was going on with Quinn, Harry couldn't deny that he had strong feelings for Hermione. What she felt remained a mystery, however, and he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he cared for her as long as she gave no indication that she felt the same.

And so the summer moved along in a string of hot, mostly happy days and muggy, passion-tense nights, until one Tuesday morning – a week before his sixteenth birthday – Harry woke up to find Pig and one of the Hogwarts owls perched outside his window.

Hedwig grudgingly made room for Pig at her water dish (the Hogwarts owl, as usual, took its payment and flew away) while Harry opened his letters. As expected, the Hogwarts letter listed his school books and materials for the coming year; one had also come for Hermione. The other letter was from Mrs. Weasley, and it read:

Harry and Hermione –

I hope you're both having a wonderful holiday. You should be getting your Hogwarts letters today or tomorrow. Arthur and I would very much like to pick you up the second week of August and take you to London for your school things, and then have you stay here at the Burrow with us until the start of term.

Hermione, your parents have already said this is fine. (I'm so glad to hear your grandmother is doing better, dear. Ron took Arthur into the city and showed him how to use one of the paying phones, and he said your mother sounded very relieved about her condition.)

Harry, if it's all right with your aunt and uncle, we'll be by to pick the both of you up on August 8 around 4. Fudge has said we can use a Ministry car so we'll come the Muggle way. Send us your answer with Pig.

Love,

Molly Weasley

Harry's first thought as he folded the letter over was, _August 8? But that's so soon! What about Quinn…?_

His second thought was, _Hermione and I won't get to see each other that much at the Burrow – I'll be sleeping in Ron's room, she'll be in Ginny's…_

He didn't have time to dwell on either concern because just then Aunt Petunia knocked on his door. Hermione was in the shower; Harry felt strangely nervous being alone with his aunt, something he'd managed to avoid most of the summer, but he motioned for her to come in. He needed to ask about the Weasleys' invitation anyway.

"Is that from your school?" Aunt Petunia asked before he could speak. She jerked her chin toward the Hogwarts envelope on his desk.

"Yes. It's my list of school supplies." Harry hesitated. He'd avoided discussing his return to Hogwarts all summer, but now, it seemed inescapable. "I, uh, I was just about to come down and ask if it's all right if my friend Ron's parents pick Hermione and me up on August 8. In their car," he added hastily, remembering the last time the Weasleys visited the Dursleys and blew the wall of their living room apart.

Aunt Petunia looked even more tense than usual. Wrapping her bony arms around her chest, she asked tightly, "So you want to go back, then?"

Harry instantly knew she was referring to the letter the Hogwarts' Board of Governors had sent all Muggle parents – the letter about Voldemort's return and the possible dangers at the school. "Yeah," he said quietly, hardly daring to breathe. "Yeah, I want to go back. I…I need to."

The silence stretched on interminably. Harry's whole life seemed to hang in the balance. What would he do if Aunt Petunia said no? How could he function in the Muggle world again, knowing that Hogwarts existed?

Who was he if he wasn't a wizard?

Yet at the same time, a small voice inside his heart whispered, _You could be with Quinn. You wouldn't have to hide anymore, no more lying, no more pretending. You could just be you, and you could be together._

Even as he thought it, though, he knew it wasn't true. Whether he returned to Hogwarts or not, Voldemort would never stop looking for him. Until Voldemort was gone, once and for all, Harry and everyone he loved would always be in danger.

Finally, Aunt Petunia released a long, slow breath and nodded. "I suspected as much. All right, tell your friends' parents they can pick you up on the eighth – but _please, _ask them to look _normal_."

She paused, as if she wasn't sure anymore needed to be said. Harry fidgeted nervously, hoping she wasn't about to change her mind. Then, to his great surprise, she closed his bedroom door, walked over to him and clasped him by the shoulders. Looking directly into his eyes, she declared fiercely, "But when you get there, if you need to come home, you can."

In sixteen years, Harry had never once received a kind or tender word from his aunt. He wasn't entirely certain how to react. He might not have even believed she was sincere if it wasn't for the tears brimming, unshed, in her eyes.

"Okay," he managed awkwardly. "Thanks."

His aunt looked at him for another long moment, almost as if she were searching his eyes for some sign – but of what, he couldn't decide. Under her penetrating gaze, he became acutely aware of how much he looked like his father and how much Aunt Petunia despised James Potter; however, for that one moment he saw no distaste in his aunt's eyes, no loathing of her dead sister and brother-in-law and their crazy wizarding world.

For one second, she seemed to just be looking at Harry, her nephew.

She released him quickly and walked out of the room without a word. Harry slumped down onto his desk, as tired as if he'd just run a marathon.

He jumped up hurriedly and busied himself writing a response to Mrs. Weasley when Hermione bustled in, skin still damp from the shower. "Everything okay?" she asked, fishing a comb out of her bag and dragging it through her long, thick hair.

"Oh yeah." Harry forced a smile he didn't feel as he held out her Hogwarts letter. "Looks like our vacation is almost over."

They spent the day with Quinn. Hermione seemed to sense that Harry wasn't ready to bring up their imminent departure yet; he was glad she didn't mention that within two weeks they would be miles and miles away, at a magical house Quinn, as a Muggle, couldn't possibly visit.

The odd encounter with Aunt Petunia and the heavy secret of leaving weighed down on Harry until he felt melancholy and distant all day. Quinn noticed, he knew she did, but she didn't ask what was wrong. Even when Hermione went home for the evening, she didn't press him for an explanation. It was one of the things Harry liked most about her – her ability to read his moods, to know when he did or didn't want to talk about something.

And that only served to make him feel guiltier about his secret feelings for Hermione.

As they often did, Quinn and Harry curled up on her couch together and talked about her father and Sirius. Not about their deaths; they talked about the men they had been, the memories they had of them, the things they would do if they could have them back again. Talking to Quinn about his godfather was like soaking his aching heart in a warm, soothing bath. As the days passed, Harry found himself able to think of Sirius without a knot of grief growing in his stomach until it seemed he might burst.

She didn't seem to mind that he wasn't in the mood for kissing. When the clock in her hallway struck midnight, he stood to go, and she kissed him once, softly, on the lips.

"When are your mom and Aaron coming back?" Harry asked, really just stalling. He always hated leaving Quinn, especially when she was all alone.

"Probably this weekend. Who knows how long they'll be home, though." Quinn smiled cattily at him. "Not that I'm eager to have them back. I like having the place to ourselves."

"Me, too." Harry kissed her again and suddenly wished he hadn't been so down all evening. Kissing Quinn was one of the brightest spots in his day. Reluctantly, he backed away and said, "Tomorrow, then?"

"It's a date." She squeezed his hand tightly before letting go. "Sweet dreams, Harry. Everything will look better in the morning."

He waited for her to lock the door and then strolled slowly toward the Dursleys. _Two weeks. _Two weeks and he wouldn't be able to hear her voice, smell her hair, kiss her lips. Could he handle that?

_Two weeks and you won't be able to fall asleep next to Hermione, wake up beside her, spend all day with her – can you handle that?_

Harry squashed the nagging voice that seemed to come from the region of his heart. The shadows looked longer than usual along Privet Drive this night. Instinctively, Harry quickened his pace. Several times he had wondered if he was being foolish staying away from the Dursleys' so long; just one year ago he and Dudley had been set upon by dementors within blocks of his aunt and uncle's house. But, as every time before, he reminded himself that he wasn't going to live like a prisoner, unable to go anywhere without worrying that Voldemort might attack him. That was no life.

Once inside Number Four, though, he double-checked that he'd locked the door before quietly ascending the stairs to bed.

Hermione was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, books spread around her, her head cocked to one side so that her long hair spilled over one shoulder. Harry lingered in the doorway for a moment watching her. She was so pretty – he couldn't believe he'd once thought she had big teeth (well, Madam Pomfrey's shrinking charm had solved that problem) and bushy hair. Even in plain black yoga pants and a gray tee-shirt, she was prettier than most girls when dressed for a ball.

_Not prettier than Quinn, though, right?_

_C'mon, Harry, don't even go there, _his inner voice warned. _That way lies madness, remember?_

"Hey," he said by way of greeting, closing the bedroom door.

"Hey yourself," Hermione said back, obviously absorbed in her reading. Harry kept his back to her as he changed into his pajamas – this had become a comfortable nightly ritual, since his boxers hid as much as his swim trunks – and then stretched out on the bed alongside her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt different between them tonight. The room was charged, somehow.

Or maybe it was only his imagination, because Hermione barely glanced at him. Not in the mood to do homework – he really didn't want to think about what he _was _in the mood to do – Harry picked up the book Hermione had brought with her, "Keeping Your Magic Sharp On School Holidays: A Guide for the Underage Wizard," and thumbed through it.

After a few minutes, his attention was captured by the heading "The Metamorphico Charm." He scanned down the page and read:

_The Metamorphico Charm, a kind of Glamour, can only be performed by a very skilled witch or wizard. This charm, which can be performed on oneself or on another, allows a person to take a different form for an extended period of time. Unlike the Polyjuice Potion, this charm cannot be detected by most traditional magical means. In fact, it takes a witch or wizard of equal skill to the one performing the charm to detect its existence in most cases._

_The most infamous instance of the Metamorphico Charm being used was in 1486, when the dark wizard Azrael transformed Helga the Hag into a beautiful faerie. Helga, a notorious murderer wanted for crimes against children all over Europe, was able to evade Aurors for more than a decade in this form. When she died of natural causes, her body reverted to its true form. Azrael was sentenced to life in Azkaban for his role in her escape from justice._

Harry's heart had grown steadily colder as he read. He knew that after Barty Crouch, Jr., had managed to fool Dumbledore (and everyone else) into believing he was Mad-Eye Moody by taking Polyjuice Potion, Dumbledore would have found some way to prevent the same trick being used on them again. But the Metamorphico Charm made it sound as if Voldemort could transform his Death Eaters into anyone he chose at will, making it impossible to know who was who, and therefore impossible to guard against them.

_Stop it, _his inner voice ordered sternly. _You just decided you weren't going to live in fear, right? Not more than twenty minutes ago, walking home, you were determined not to be afraid of Voldemort!_

Strengthening his resolve once more, Harry started to read on about how the charm was cast. But Hermione suddenly closed her book, straightened up and announced, "I think you should tell Quinn tomorrow that you're leaving."

It took a second for Harry to recover from her unexpected pronouncement. "Why?"

He knew it was the wrong response as soon as he said it. Hermione's face darkened. Remarkably, she looked even prettier than usual.

"Why?" she demanded hotly. "Harry, you can't play around with someone's emotions like that! Don't you think she deserves the truth?"

Probably because he felt guilty for not telling Quinn straight off about Mrs. Weasleys' invitation, Harry snapped with more venom than he intended, "Okay, and don't you think Ron deserves to know that you've been sleeping in my bed all summer?"

Hermione flushed. "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

_Good question. _

_Shaky ground, Potter, shaky ground – do you really want to go here?_

Wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, Harry muttered, "Nothing." He slammed the book closed and tossed it onto his nightstand. "Nothing, forget about it, let's just go to sleep."

"I don't think so." Hermione, he knew from experience, could be very tenacious when angered, and she was certainly pissed off at him right now. "How is telling your _girlfriend _that you're leaving in two weeks related to my telling my _friend _that you and I have slept in the same bed?"

_Nice one, Potter. Smooth. Couldn't have put a silencing spell on yourself, could ya?_

Well, he was in it now, there was no escaping. Harry couldn't deny that he was almost eager for this – for everything he'd been holding inside about his feelings for Hermione to finally be said. The tension he'd sensed when he first walked in was mounting, and not all of it came from anger.

At least, he hoped he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"You know Ron has a crush on you. Don't you feel dishonest not telling him that we're, you know, we fall asleep and wake up together, side by side?"

"We're sharing a bed, Harry, we're not having sex." Hermione spit the word out brutally, although she colored scarlet when she said it. "Excuse me for not wanting to cause a problem between the two of you unnecessarily."

"Well, maybe I don't want to tell Quinn about leaving because it seems unnecessary. Maybe I want to be able to enjoy being around her for a while longer without that ruining everything."

"Are you in love with her?"

Harry's jaw dropped. He felt his cheeks turn a shade of red to match Hermione's. "I…Am I what?"

"In love with her." Eyes blazing, Hermione fixed him with a relentless stare. "Because I don't think you are, Harry Potter. I think you're using her. I think you like having a summer fling with a beautiful girl, and you couldn't care less if I – if _she _gets hurt!"

Despite her swift recovery, what Hermione had nearly said – "if I get hurt" – hung between them in the ensuing silence. Harry's heart was hammering so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. She looked away; he pushed up into a sitting position to face her, scared to death but trembling with excitement.

_This is what I've wanted. She cares about me – she wants to be with me. _

_And Quinn? _his inner voice demanded coolly. _Weren't you just agonizing over leaving her?_

Well, did Quinn even matter anymore? Of course she _mattered, _he told himself hastily, it wasn't as if he felt nothing for her. Quite the opposite. But did it matter since he couldn't be with her? Since he was leaving in two weeks and might never see her again, or even if he did, he couldn't really be himself around her? Since if he was able to tell her the truth someday, he would be putting her in mortal danger from an enemy she couldn't possibly understand?

Hermione he could be with. Hermione already knew who he was, in the truest sense of knowing someone. Hermione already knew the score with Voldemort and had proven more than capable of handling the danger.

Hermione he had cared about for a long while, if he was honest with himself. And now, he was confident that he knew what _she _wanted.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt." Harry chose his words carefully. Hermione glanced up sideways at him, unconvinced, still angry. He shifted closer to her and reached for her hand, cradling her fingers in his. "But it seems like somebody's going to get hurt here, doesn't it?"

She drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Harry." Her eyes came slowly up to his. "Harry, I don't think this is a good idea. You have a girlfriend. And we're…we're friends. And Ron…"

"Should have spoken up by now," Harry finished for her, surprising himself. He hadn't realized until this second that he felt that way, but he did. "Hermione, if you…if this is what you want, I mean, with me, then…"

"Oh, Harry, it's too complicated! Let's just stop this, okay?" She tried to pull her hand out of his, but Harry held on, determined to see this through. "Harry, really, let's just pretend we never had this conversation."

"Why?"

"Why? Because you're my best friend! Because we've saved each other's lives and we're probably going to have to keep saving each other's lives for a long time now! Because-because-because if you kiss me right now, you _can't take it back_!"

She was practically yelling. Harry hoped the Dursleys – especially Dudley – were sound asleep; he didn't know if he could live down the humiliation of Hermione's rejection.

Dropping her hand, he turned away. "Okay. Whatever. Have it your way."

"Don't do that. Don't act like I've done something wrong." Hermione lowered her voice, yet she still sounded furious. "You're the one who's paraded your girlfriend around in front of me ever since I got here. Maybe Ron isn't the only one who should have said something before now, did you ever think about that? Did you ever think that maybe I don't fancy being your next shag?"

_Next shag? Bloody hell!_

"Is that what you think?" Harry rolled over to face her. Not that it mattered much; she was too busy furiously unloading books off the bed to look at him. "That I'm 'shagging' Quinn?"

"Look, girls talk, okay? So you don't have to spare my feelings by lying."

"Girls talk?" The earlier coldness slipped back into Harry's blood. He shivered as he watched Hermione flip off the bedside lamp and flounce down beside him, careful not to let one inch of her skin touch his. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared at her darkness-obscured form. "Is that what Quinn told you? That we're…I mean, you know…"

He barely saw her nod in the darkness. The coldness turned to a lead weight around his heart. Why would Quinn lie about that? Was she just playing dirty with Hermione, being sure she kept her hold on her man?

_She did say she'd fight for me, _he recalled. _I don't know whether to be furious or flattered by it._

In any case, he wanted Hermione to know the truth. He didn't want it to be a lie that kept her from being with him.

"If that's what she said, she lied," he declared simply. He watched Hermione go rigid with disbelief. "I'm serious, Hermione. I haven't slept with Quinn. I swear it. I'd swear it on Sirius's life."

Slowly, Hermione rolled onto her side to face him. "Why would she tell me that?"

"I don't know. Maybe…maybe to make you jealous?"

"Or maybe because she's not everything she seems?" Hermione sighed. "Harry, look, I haven't said anything because, well, you know why, and maybe now it just sounds like I want you to break up with her or something…"

"Do you?" Harry surprised himself again by being so blunt.

She responded with equal bluntness. "Would you?"

He instantly knew that the answer was yes. If Hermione wanted him, he wanted her. He tried to say that, tried to explain that he'd wanted nothing more than for her to be with him for a long time, but his mouth was suddenly too dry, because Hermione was moving toward him. He slipped one arm beneath her waist and slid his other hand behind her neck as she scooted closer and eased onto his chest; her hair spilled across him in a sleek curtain.

In the dim light cast by the streetlamps outside, Harry saw the uncertainty in her eyes. But that didn't stop her from dipping her head and bringing her lips to his; her eyelids fluttered closed at once, and so did his. He felt like he was floating up near the ceiling. Her warm palms moved up his chest. He suddenly very much wanted to pull his tee-shirt off and feel her skin on his, but he didn't want to break their kiss. When she pressed the length of her body more firmly into his, Harry's breath caught in his throat. His whole body was on fire, burning in a way he'd never burned for Quinn.

Hermione kissed deeply. She didn't resist when he pushed his tongue between her lips. She made a small, welcoming sound at the back of her throat when he slipped his hands inside her shirt in the back, exploring the feel of her thin wing-bones, the curve of her shoulders, the flat plane of her stomach. She made a low growl when he ever so lightly ran his fingers over her bare breasts – she wore nothing under her tee-shirt – and Harry almost came undone when he felt her nipples harden under his touch.

Her mouth left his and drifted down onto his neck. He caught her hips and rolled her underneath him; she responded by tugging his shirt off over his head in one fluid move. A small voice in the back of his head shouted that if he intended to stop, it was now or never – he was already almost too far gone to think clearly.

"Are you sure?" he managed to rasp out, a little embarrassed by how ragged his breathing was.

To his surprise, Hermione didn't falter. "Yes." She pulled him back down into a bruising kiss, and the last of his reservations vanished.

He was nervous, yes – he suspected she was, too – but not blundering, which came as an immense relief to him. He kissed down her neck, trying to pace himself despite the almost painful desire he felt. Hermione tangled her fingers in his hair and giggled when his lips brushed a ticklish spot above her collarbone. Harry smiled against her skin. He should have known how this would be – sweet, loving, amazing. Perfect.

_Because she's perfect for me…_

The thought had no more than crossed his mind when an explosion of pain erupted in Harry's head. He screamed, caught off-guard, and toppled sideways; his whole body had gone limp, his muscles prisoner to the agony breaking over his brain in white-hot waves. Distantly, he heard Hermione yelling for help, and footsteps pounding down the hall toward his room.

The world tilted. He realized he was passing out, and still the pain continued, merciless and unrelenting. From far away – or was it from very close, like inside his own mind? – he heard Voldemort's high-pitched, eerie laughter.

_You're too late, Harry, _he heard Voldemort saying, in his cold, cruel voice. _It has already begun. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be begging for death._

And then came the merciful blackness.


	9. Beginning of the End

**Chapter 9**

By the time Harry convinced everyone that he was all right, the first rays of dawn were shining in his bedroom window.

His screams had brought all three Dursleys to his room. Dudley, hovering in the doorway, seemed to be the only one who noticed that Harry was shirtless, Hermione was unusually flushed and both were disheveled; he grinned knowingly at them until Hermione leveled her fiercest glare at him, at which point he clapped his hands over his beefy backside – Dudley retained a healthy fear of tails, even five years later – and lumbered back down the hallway as quickly as he could go.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia either didn't notice or wouldn't admit to noticing any strangeness in Harry and Hermione's appearances. Uncle Vernon was convinced they had been attempting some magic (though he of course didn't use that word, he called it "nonsense") that had gone awry. Aunt Petunia kept looking around the room as if she expected a hidden attacker to jump out, and Harry knew exactly what she was thinking: Voldemort.

After more than an hour, he convinced the Dursleys that he'd really just awoken from a particularly vivid nightmare. They reluctantly headed back to bed, leaving him to deal with Hermione, who obviously knew he hadn't been dreaming.

The last thing Harry wanted to do was discuss his scar hurting after they'd nearly made love – funny how that didn't sound mushy in conjunction with Hermione – but she acted as if they'd been having a perfectly normal conversation when he collapsed. Finally, because he knew she wouldn't stop pestering him until he told her, he admitted that his scar had hurt a few times that summer.

Then, of course, he had to admit that those times had been while he was kissing Quinn.

Hermione took the revelation in stride. "What do you think is causing it?" she asked, reaching out a concerned hand to push his hair off his forehead. In spite of himself, Harry shivered at her touch. She smiled but remained all-business. "Do you have any idea?"

Harry thought about his conversation with Dumbledore just a couple of months ago – a conversation in which Dumbledore had confirmed that Voldemort could, in fact, possess Harry. The mind of the self-proclaimed Dark Lord and the mind of The Boy Who Lived had been fused by the curse that failed to kill Harry sixteen years ago. Although he didn't tell Hermione everything Dumbledore had told him – it required a much longer explanation than he was prepared to give at two o'clock in the morning – he did tell her that he suspected his mind was more vulnerable to Voldemort when his emotions were running high.

"That's always seemed to be how it works," he finished. "I can feel him when he's really enraged or really happy. I suppose it makes sense that the reverse would be true as well, at least now that he's figured out a connection exists between us."

Hermione was nodding in understanding. "You should tell Dumbledore. The Order needs to know."

_Right.__ Of course Hermione wants me to tell a teacher. _Harry, despite his newly-discovered desire to throw her over on the pillows and kiss her until she couldn't breathe, nevertheless felt sour towards her for not recognizing his predicament. What was he supposed to say? _"Professor Dumbledore, lately my scar seems to hurt whenever I'm thinking about sex. Like last night, when I almost made it with Hermione Granger…"_

Somehow, Harry couldn't imagine talking to Dumbledore about sex. He didn't strike Harry as the type of person who'd ever been snogged in his entire life.

_I wish Sirius were here…_

The thought was so sudden and painful it took Harry's breath for a moment. Hermione's hand tightened on his wrist, where it had come to rest during their conversation; he smiled quickly to show her that he wasn't about to collapse again.

"You're right," he admitted grudgingly, because she was. "I know I need to tell Dumbledore. It's just…I'm embarrassed. About the circumstances."

To his chagrin, Hermione laughed. "Harry, don't tell him we were making out! I mean, isn't it enough that you're experiencing more severe pain than usual, and it seems to be associated with extremes of emotion? You know Dumbledore. He'll make his own inferences, he won't press you for a detailed explanation if you don't offer one."

Suddenly, Harry felt silly for not realizing that himself. "Okay," he agreed. "I promise I'll write to him first thing tomorrow – "

But Hermione was already at the desk retrieving parchment and a quill. "No, you'll write to him tonight. That way, the Order can get started on it first thing tomorrow."

He sighed, knowing there was no point arguing. They sat together on the bed as he drafted the letter – it took him three tries to feel comfortable with the wording – and then sent Hedwig out into the night with the letter strapped to her leg. For the first time in quite a while, Harry experienced a twinge of uncertainty as Hedwig soared out of sight. He wondered for barely an instant if he would ever see her again.

_Don't be stupid. You're just tired, _he ordered himself.

The sun was starting to come up and both he and Hermione were pale with fatigue. "Let's sleep in a lot today," he suggested, crawling under the covers with her. It made him insanely happy that she snuggled down into his side.

"Agreed."

He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, more than ready for a good night's sleep. But Hermione had one more tentative question for him.

"Harry?"

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Are – I mean, _when _are you going to tell Quinn about…this?"

He smiled against her hair. Apparently, Hermione hadn't quite realized how important she was to him yet.

"Today, Hermione," he replied, and fell asleep with the feel of her broad smile against his chest.

They crawled out of bed at half-past noon the next day. Harry wasn't surprised when Hermione suggested she stay at the Dursleys' while he went over to Quinn's; he obviously wanted privacy to explain what had happened.

The walk to Number Six Privet Drive seemed like a march to his death. Harry drug his feet as his mind, now somewhat clear of the passion-haze that had lingered even during his sleep, raced through tactful ways of breaking up with Quinn.

_Breaking up with Quinn…_

He could hardly believe that just a few hours before he'd been walking from Quinn's to the Dursleys' wondering if he could survive without her once he returned to Hogwarts. Buoyed by his new-found romance with Hermione, he nonetheless couldn't help wondering if he was somehow being not just unfair but untrue to both girls.

_Am I some kind of big jerk? Some guy who falls in and out of infatuations with girls at a moment's notice? Am I making a big mistake here?_

Before he had time to sort out any answers, though, his feet had carried him to Quinn's doorstep. Heart in his mouth, he rang her bell.

She opened the door in shorts and an emerald-green tank-top that matched her eyes exactly. She looked so fresh and pretty that for one second Harry almost gave in to the temptation to kiss her hello. Fortunately, she didn't offer – his pale, drawn countenance tipped her off immediately that something was amiss.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously as he stepped into the foyer. She closed the door and motioned him into the living room, her brow creased with concern. "What's happened, Harry?"

He sat in the recliner, not on the sofa with her. He saw her eyes grow rather guarded at that. "I, uh, Quinn, I have to tell you something," he began haltingly. His cheeks were already heating up, and he willed himself not to act like a total ass.

"Harry, you're scaring me." She twirled a lock of hair nervously around her finger. "What is it? Just tell me."

Harry took a deep, composing breath. _You can do this, _he shouted over the inner voice that was shrieking he was making a mistake, that he was picking the wrong girl. _Just tell her you're sorry, but you've fallen for Hermione. That you were already fallen and just didn't have the guts to admit it to yourself._

"Quinn, I'm really sorry about this," he started again. "I know you've had a shitty year, to say the least, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was make things harder for you somehow."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded for him to go on. The dreaded expectation in her glimmering green eyes made Harry want to sink through the floor.

He struggled on, trying to convey his sense of shame at having betrayed her trust. "First, I, uh, I need to tell you that I'm leaving in two weeks. My friend Ron invited Hermione and me to come to his family's, and we'll be there until school starts on September 1st."

Tears shone in her eyes, but she anchored them there, he suspected by sheer force of will. "Oh. Well, we always knew the summer couldn't go on forever, right?"

When Harry looked away, she sighed unhappily. "But there's something more, I take it."

"Yeah. Yes." Harry ordered himself to be a man and look her in the face. She deserved that much. "Last night, Hermione and I…we, uh, well…"

Quinn cut him off with a sharp, hollow laugh. "Oh. Right. Okay. I figured it was something like that."

He decided he would give his right arm for an invisibility cloak right about then. "Quinn, I'm really sorry. I know I'm a bloody sod for doing this to you, and I don't even have any right to apologize, but I never meant for you to be hurt."

"Nobody ever does." Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheekbones, and Harry knew she was losing the battle with her tears. He stood up when she did, not wanting to add to her pain by witnessing her cry if she wanted to be alone. "Look, it's not that big of a deal. I mean, we barely know each other, and Hermione's really great. I'm sure you'll be very happy."

They were back at her front door. Harry hesitated, wishing he could say something, anything, to fix the mess he'd made of things.

"I didn't mean for this to happen. I really didn't."

It sounded flaccid in his own ears. Quinn smiled tightly at him – a smile that didn't reach her eyes. In spite of the day's warmth, Harry was abruptly chilled.

"Don't worry about me, Harry. I've gotten pretty good at taking care of myself. Tell Hermione I said hello."

With that, she closed the door in his face, and Harry had no choice but to walk away.

When he returned to the Dursleys', Hermione immediately suggested they go for a walk. He was relieved she didn't press him to talk about what he said to Quinn, about his scar hurting or about what happened between them last night. Instead, she kept up a steady stream of comments about their homework assignments, questions that might come up on their fast-approaching N.E.W.T.s, and the school supplies she needed to pick up while in London.

She didn't seem to mind that Harry hardly spoke. He appreciated her consideration.

After a couple of hours at the pool – he kept a wary eye out for Quinn, but she didn't show – Harry felt much calmer and ready to talk about the new developments in his life. Hermione readily agreed when he suggested they go for ice cream.

He paid for their chocolate malts and joined her at an umbrella-shaded outside table. "So," he began, concentrating on stirring the thick ice cream with his straw, "are you, uh, okay with what happened last night?"

Hermione's cheeks turned pink but she regarded him steadily, as if determined not to be embarrassed. "I am. Very much okay. And you?"

"Yeah. Very much okay."

They grinned at one another. After a few moments of sipping their malts in silence, he went on, "I just didn't want you to think it was a one-time thing, or anything like that. I mean, I don't want it to be just that," he added quickly, with the sudden horrible thought that maybe she wasn't interested in a relationship with him.

Her blush deepened but her grin also widened, which Harry took as a positive sign. "No, me neither. I mean, I don't want it to have just been that one time." She laughed, so clear and bright he couldn't help but join in. "Listen to us! It's like we've forgotten how to speak."

She reached across the glass-topped table and placed her hand over his. Harry went tingly right down to his core.

"I really care about you, Harry," she said solemnly, her voice half a breath above a whisper. "I guess I didn't realize how much until these last couple of weeks, but I've kind of had a crush on you since our first year. And I would really, really like to be your girlfriend, if that's what you want."

_Since our first year?__ Oh yeah…_

Harry couldn't help feeling smug. He hoped his smile didn't look goofy; his face felt unnaturally stretched, yet he couldn't seem to control the grin. Hermione giggled, but it was a nice sound, not as if she were laughing at him.

"That's what I want, too," he said, surprised that his voice barely shook at all since his insides had turned to jelly.

"Well, good then. That's settled." Hermione took a long sip of her malt, smiling to herself. "But you know, I think Rita Skeeter is going to be a little full of herself when she finds out. She's been saying for years that you were in love with me."

They both laughed, remembering the article that caused Hermione so much hate-mail for supposedly breaking Harry's heart. Feeling much more at ease, he decided to tell her about Quinn's reaction. "She seemed okay," he concluded, after giving her the high points of their talk. "I think she was pretty pissed at me, but she has reason to be, I suppose."

Hermione's face darkened somewhat. "You know, last night, before…_everything_, we were starting to talk about Quinn. Do you really think she only lied to me to warn me off from you?"

Harry shrugged. Truthfully, he couldn't think of Quinn as devious or manipulative, but perhaps he wasn't the best judge of her character considering how infatuated he'd been with her. And although he suspected Hermione thought it was possible, he really didn't see how Quinn could be connected to Voldemort, or any Death Eater for that matter; she was Muggle through-and-through, he'd stake his life on it.

_Funny you should phrase it that way, _he thought darkly, but quickly shook it off. He was determined not to be paranoid about Voldemort's schemes. Without proof, he couldn't convince himself that Quinn had any other motive than keeping Hermione away from him when she lied about them having sex.

"Whatever the reason, I don't think it really matters now," he replied honestly. "After two weeks I probably won't ever see her again. I mean, she'll be away at her boarding school, so the only time I'd even be around her is in the summers, and I'd, uh, I'd kind of like it if we could make you visiting me a yearly occurrence. Kind of makes Privet Drive easier to take."

Blushing prettily, Hermione acquiesced to his evaluation. "Okay. I don't know. Maybe it was just seeing the two of you together," Harry felt himself grinning smugly again, "but I never trusted her. I'll be glad when we're back at school and away from her."

"And the Dursleys," Harry added. "They're a trip, aren't they?"

"Bunch of bloody nutters," Hermione agreed, but she suddenly sounded somewhat absent. "Hey, isn't that your cousin and his friends?"

Glancing up, Harry saw Dudley's massive form moving slowly down the sidewalk, with Piers and his other two gigantic cronies in tow. "Why don't we go," he suggested. He didn't want a run-in with Dudley and friends to ruin what was turning out to be a very nice day. "We could pick up some books and go to the park to read – "

"Isn't that Quinn?" Hermione was still squinting down the sidewalk toward Dudley.

Harry followed her gaze and did a double-take. Sure enough, Quinn was standing in front of the record shop, one hand on her hip, the other resting flirtatiously on Piers' shoulder.

Harry instantly quashed the flare of jealousy. More than likely that was what Quinn was after anyway. Linking his fingers through Hermione's, he said firmly, "It doesn't matter. She's free to talk to whoever she wants, and I'm not going to play some stupid jealousy game. I'd rather spend the day with you."

Hermione bestowed a dazzling smile on him and, after a moment's hesitation, leaned across the table and sealed his lips with a long, lingering kiss. Harry's head was swimming by the time she pulled back and tugged him to his feet.

"You're really good at that," he told her, as they started toward Privet Drive.

"You're not too bad yourself," she laughed.

As they strolled along, Harry thought of another possible complication of their new-found romance that neither had broached yet. Reluctantly, he decided it was better to get it over with early than have it hanging between them. "Hey," he said, aiming for casualness, "have you thought about what to say to Ron?"

Her shoulders stiffened slightly. "I have. Thought about it, I mean. So far I haven't come up with anything I can actually imagining saying to him." She glanced sideways at him. "You?"

"No. I mean, like you said, everything just sounds wrong, even in my head."

"Well, I don't think a letter is the way to handle it. And we can't say anything right away, because that'd be in front of his whole family." Hermione sighed, pushing her hair behind her ears. Harry realized he was starting to pick up on her quirks – when she was nervous, she played with her hair. "I guess when we get back to the Burrow we'll just have to get him alone and tell him."

"Should we do it together or, you know, separately? Like, maybe I could talk to him first."

_So you won't be there to see him clock me, _he added silently.

Hermione shook her head. "If we do that, I think I should tell him."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Yeah," he said doubtfully, "because you and Ron get on so well."

She swatted at him, and he laughed, enjoying the intimacy. "Ron and I understand each other. It's just that no one else understands _how _we understand each other."

"I do. You fight a lot," Harry teased, earning him another swat. This time, he pulled her around in front of him, ignoring her squeal of protest, and kissed her. Her lips were cool from the ice cream but her skin was warm from the day's heat; the combination made him slightly dizzy.

"Wow," Hermione breathed when he released her. "I really have no idea what we were talking about."

"Something about you not telling Ron about us because you two fight enough as it is." Harry slipped his arm around her shoulders as they turned the corner onto Privet Drive, feeling so elated he could have been walking on clouds. Even the problem of how to salvage their friendship with Ron couldn't puncture his happiness. "Maybe the best play would be to – "

But Harry never got to finish that sentence because Hermione had stopped dead in her tracks and was staring at Number Four in mute horror. Following her gaze, he felt his stomach drop into his shoes: The Grangers' car was parked in the driveway. Their unexpected arrival could mean only one thing.

He tightened his grip on Hermione's shoulder, concerned by her sudden pallor. "Grandma," she whispered, and then broke into a run for the front door, followed closely by Harry, whose elation had abruptly deflated.

_Author's Note: Okay, don't hate me, but this chapter really is the Beginning of the End. All good things must come to a close! I don't want to drag this on past its logical conclusion, and like summer romances, a story about a summer romance can't go on forever. (I say this because I'm jealous of you awesome writers out there who write novel-length fics! Damn you!) I hope you enjoyed this chapter and more will be coming very soon!_


	10. An Owl Mystery

**Chapter 10**

Twenty minutes later, Harry stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching Hermione pack. The news was as bad as he'd expected when he saw the Grangers' car in the drive: her grandmother had passed away.

Mrs. Granger insisted her passing was swift and easy, that just the day before they'd thought she was getting better, that up until an hour before the end she was drinking tea, telling old stories and enjoying having her children around her. "We would have called for you at once if we'd known she was so bad, love," she had assured Hermione, hugging her daughter close. "I'm so sorry you didn't get to see her."

Aunt Petunia, remarkably, had risen beautifully to the occasion. She offered the Grangers tea in the parlor and talked quietly with Mrs. Granger about the burial arrangements, the travel headaches for far-away family, and all of the little details that accompanied a death. Dudley was still out with his friends; Harry wasn't in any hurry for his cousin to come home and start rubbing it in that Quinn was now with Piers, if that had been the logical end of the scene he'd witnessed outside the ice cream shop. Fortunately, Uncle Vernon was also at work, so the Grangers didn't have anyone watching them suspiciously to see if they were wizards in disguise.

Harry couldn't think of anything remotely helpful to say as Hermione carefully stacked clothes and books inside her suitcase. "I imagine we'll just go straight to London for my school things once this is over," she announced, in the curiously tight voice she'd been using ever since her mother broke the news. "Mum and Dad probably won't mind my going on to the Burrow, if that's what you're still planning to do. They'll have to get back to work, you know, so I should get on with school."

Nodding, he crossed to the bed and lifted the heavy suitcase for her. "Okay. When Hedwig gets back I'll send a post to Ron, let them know what's happened."

"That'd be brilliant, thanks." She smiled oddly, standing awkwardly to the side as if he were a polite stranger. "I'm sorry I won't be here on your birthday."

"Don't worry about it." Harry tried to smile normally, but her strange mood seemed to be catching. He gritted his teeth in frustration. This was Hermione, for pity's sake! Why didn't he just hug her, tell her how much the world sucked sometimes, and let her cry it out on his shoulder?

She started around him, and he knew, somehow, that he had one chance to do this right. Dropping the suitcase back on the bed, he said, "Hermione," very quietly, but it was enough.

She turned and fell into his arms. He clung to her as she clung to him; he could have cried himself, and he'd never met her grandmother. She sobbed and sobbed, hot tears scalding his shoulder, while he smoothed her hair and whispered comforts he was hardly aware of saying aloud. He supposed her parents and Aunt Petunia could hear them, but no one came up the stairs, and he was thankful for the privacy for both their sakes.

Finally, Hermione released him. She swiped at her tears with the hem of her tank-top and smiled rather shyly. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to go to pieces – "

"Don't." He cupped her chin gently and kissed her, not meaning it to be lustful, and it wasn't – it was sweet and tender, for both of them. Against her hair, he murmured, "I'll write to you, everyday if you like. It's going to be all right, Hermione."

"I know. I know." She repeated it solemnly, as if reminding herself would lessen the hurt. He admired her brave smile as she stepped back and scraped her hair off her wet cheeks. One thing about Hermione, she didn't lack courage. "She was really ill for quite a while, and I know it's better for her this way. But…"

"But you'll still miss her. I get it." Harry picked her suitcase up and draped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Listen, if you need me, just call, or send an owl. Even if you just want to talk."

They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Harry heard the Grangers saying their good-byes to Aunt Petunia, thanking her for her hospitality to their daughter. He leaned down and quickly kissed Hermione.

"You're really great, Harry, you know that?" She smiled into his eyes. "And listen, the thing with Ron – we'll sort it out."

"Absolutely. Everything will be perfect."

In spite of himself, he almost believed that. His heart gave a funny jump as he imagined showing up at Hogwarts with Hermione as his girlfriend – holding hands in Hogsmeade, whispering together in the common room, flirting quietly across the table in the Great Hall. He wondered, suddenly, if this was how his dad felt when Lily Evans, one day to be Lily Potter, finally gave in and realized she loved him back.

Harry stood in the doorway waving until the Grangers' car was out of sight. Then, torn between the heaviness of Hermione's departure and his elation over being her boyfriend, he turned and went back up to his room. He wasn't in the mood for dealing with Aunt Petunia, despite her recent displays of kindness, or with Dudley when he came in – he wanted to be alone with his daydreams of Hermione.

_And I don't want to hear __Dudley__'s snide comments about Quinn and Piers, _he grudgingly admitted to himself, stretching out on his bed. He was so tired from swimming he could almost drift off…

And he must have, because when he awoke in his darkened bedroom a few hours later, with a vague sense of unease that always seemed to accompany nightmares he couldn't entirely remember, an owl was hooting at his window. Half-asleep, Harry opened the sash and took the letter from the owl's leg; it perched on the window ledge, apparently waiting to see if he wanted to send a reply.

Harry flipped on his bedroom light and read:

Harry –

Hedwig showed up this morning at my cabin. Didn't have any injuries but she is sick. Maybe something she ate? She didn't have any letter with her.

If you need anything, send me a note with Hermes. He's the most reliable owl at Hogwarts.

I'll take care of Hedwig and send her back when she's well. Might be a few days.

- Hagrid

In spite of the evening's warmth, Harry felt chilled. Hedwig had appeared at Hogwarts sick and without his letter for Dumbledore? That didn't track – Hedwig was more likely to turn into a swan than not deliver a letter. Had someone intercepted her? Had someone poisoned her?

Sighing, he took out a piece of parchment and drafted a quick response:

Hagrid,

Hedwig was carrying a letter for Dumbledore. It's probably nothing, but my scar has been hurting more than usual. I think Voldemort's tie with me is getting stronger. He seems to be able to invade my mind more.

Could you give Dumbledore that message for me? Oh, and could you send an owl to the Weasleys to let them know that Hermione's gran passed away?

And thanks for taking care of Hedwig. I don't know what could have happened. She was fine when she left.

Harry

Well, that would have to do, he supposed. He wished Hermione were still here; she would probably have a better idea for how to get his message to Dumbledore.

Thinking of Hermione made him smile despite his concern for Hedwig. He tied the letter to Hermes' leg, carried him over to take a sip from Hedwig's water dish, and then watched him soar out into the night.

_And if this owl doesn't make it there?__ Or if it shows up without my letter? How will I know whether Dumbledore got my message or not?_

A knot of tension formed in Harry's stomach. He understood that Privet Drive was the safest place for him in the summers; he understood that returning once a year to his mother's sister's house kept the protection charm Dumbledore had worked on him strong. Too strong for Voldemort to break. Nonetheless, he couldn't help being frustrated at how cut off from everything and everyone he was here in Little Whinging.

_It's like being in another world, _he thought glumly, resting his chin on his hands and staring into the darkness. _And with Hedwig gone, I can't even write to Hermione…_

Well, she would understand. At least, he hoped she would. Maybe he could write her a letter a day and show them to her once they got to the Burrow –

_Yeah, 'cause that wouldn't be pathetic or anything…_

Harry grinned ruefully. Okay, so he was head-over-heels for Hermione. What was wrong with that? If it would make her happy, he could stand to make a bit of a fool out of himself.

Still smiling, he started to turn away from the window when a flash of light down the street caught his attention. He watched, feeling rather like a spy, as a large black Mercedes-Benz pulled into the driveway of Number Six, Privet Drive. Quinn's mother and step-dad, he realized, and hastily shut the window, not sure why he didn't want to be seen watching them but certain, in any case, that he didn't.

The next several days passed surprisingly quickly. Harry, as he'd predicted, had difficulty falling asleep at night by himself; he would wake up off and on throughout the night and reach for Hermione, jolting fully awake with a cold, metallic taste of fear in his mouth before he remembered she wasn't supposed to be there anymore. His dreams didn't help. No matter how mad his conscious mind was for Hermione, apparently his subconscious hadn't gotten the message – he dreamed regularly of Quinn, and sometimes of both she and Hermione. He always woke up slightly embarrassed and irritated with himself for being unfaithful to Hermione, even in his dreams, but as the day wore on he would almost forget the dreams until night descended.

Dudley, to his surprise, didn't mention talking to Quinn. Nor did he make a big production over Hermione's absence. In fact, Harry thought Dudley was acting rather strangely; he took to spending more and more time in the house and less and less time with his friends. Aunt Petunia looked grimmer than usual as she watched him trudge back up to his bedroom everyday, where the noise of the television and his video games could be heard until lunch time, when he appeared to eat and then returned to his room until supper. Even Uncle Vernon commented rather gruffly that his Big Boy didn't seem quite himself, but Dudley just shrugged and said he was "tired of his stupid friends" and wanted to watch his programs.

Harry, for one, spent as little time as possible at the Dursleys'. Apparently Uncle Vernon was relieved that his nephew would be returning to "that school," regardless of the danger to Harry's life, because his bad mood lightened considerably as the end of summer approached. Aunt Petunia, however, more than made up for his change of temper by falling into a blacker mood than Harry ever remembered seeing her in; she shouted over fingerprints on her countertops, cried when her rosebushes withered under the July drought, and twice refused to cook supper because Uncle Vernon was late coming home from work and hadn't called. All in all, Number Four wasn't a comfortable place to be, so Harry took to wandering the shopping district and reading books in the park until late in the evening, when his aunt and uncle were usually in bed.

He half-expected to bump into Quinn on his excursions. He couldn't decide if he was anticipating or dreading the encounter; part of him wanted to get back to Hogwarts without any more awkward meetings between them, but another part of him – and the part that usually won out – worried about her. The big black Mercedes only stayed in the driveway that one night and half the next day; when Harry came home for lunch, it was gone. He wondered if Quinn had decided to accompany her mother and step-father on whatever trip they'd taken this time since he didn't see her out at all.

Yet despite the closed blinds and locked doors of Number Six, he somehow sensed she was still there, all alone and miserable.

The day before his sixteenth birthday, Harry woke up with a curious sense of expectation tickling his gut. He had no more than dressed when, to his pleasant surprise, Hedwig soared into view. He welcomed her home with a treat and a kiss on the beak – she hooted contentedly and nipped at his finger, looking no worse the wear for her illness – before reading the letter tied to her leg.

Harry (he read) –

He's your owl back. Never did figure out what caused her to be sick, but she got better on her own.

Hope to see you back at school soon. Oh, and happy birthday!

- Hagrid

Not even the enormous box of Chocolate Frogs Hagrid had included as his birthday present could quiet the nerves dancing in Harry's stomach. Nothing – not one single word – about Hermione's grandmother dying or about his message for Dumbledore. Had Hermes never returned to Hogwarts, or had his letter simply not been attached?

Feeling rather frustrated (and a tiny bit frightened), Harry sat down to write his third message to Dumbledore. What was wrong with Hagrid anyway, he silently fumed as he scrolled away. Didn't he think it odd that Harry wasn't in the least bit concerned for Hedwig, that he wouldn't have at least acknowledged receipt of the note from Hermes? Didn't he find it odd that Hedwig would show up at Hogwarts, quite more than a hop, skip and a jump from Privet Drive, without a letter to deliver?

_Calm down. Hagrid's not to blame. Maybe he thought Hedwig got sick while she was delivering a letter somewhere else and just came to him for help – that'd make sense, I'm sure that's what she would do in that case. _

_But Hermes?__ How did Hagrid explain the other owl coming back letter-less?_

Well, admittedly that was perplexing. Harry searched his mind for a plausible explanation and couldn't come up with one. If Hermes hadn't returned to Hogwarts, Hagrid would have _known _something was wrong and at the very least sent another owl to Harry – at the very most, and Harry suspected this was more likely, he would have gone to Dumbledore. If Hermes had returned without any letter, he was sure Hagrid would have found that odd as well, and certainly wouldn't have been so normal and friendly in this letter that had come back with Hedwig.

_So what am I saying? That the only way Hagrid wouldn't be concerned is if he got a letter from me?_

_But then why doesn't he mention my message to Dumbledore? Why doesn't he say he hopes I'm feeling better? Why doesn't he mention Hermione's grandmother, maybe ask how she's doing or if I've heard from her? That's just not like Hagrid…_

Hedwig had settled in for a nap in her cage. Harry looked at the note in his hand – yet another warning about the pain in his scar – and reluctantly stuck it inside his desk drawer. Hedwig had been sick, after all, and she'd been his friend for almost six years now. He didn't want to hurt her by exhausting her further. And, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he was a little afraid to send her out with another letter, in case someone was intercepting his messages. Maybe this time they wouldn't settle for just taking the letter – they might hurt her.

_I won't be responsible for someone else I love dying._

The thought came so swiftly that Harry had to blink back a sudden rush of tears. His birthday tomorrow – he'd be all alone, as alone as he'd been before he even knew Hogwarts existed…

He sat down on his bed while the scalding, salty tears pricked at his eyes. Ron would send a present, of course, and probably his mum and dad, too; they were all looking forward to seeing him soon, just as he was anxious to see them, but it wasn't the same – they weren't _here. _Hermione, of course, was most likely far more miserable than he was, burying her gran. If she didn't send a card or present he certainly wasn't going to hold it against her. But he missed her, more than he was sure was sensible to, and he desperately wished she would call on the phone, to tell him how she was and, maybe, to see how he was doing, too.

_If she's not furious that I haven't written, that is, _he thought darkly, and suddenly wished very hard that Viktor Krum's letters were all getting lost, too.

But despite all of that, Harry recognized that his real problem wasn't spending another birthday alone – he had managed to survive it for sixteen years, hadn't he? No, the real problem was that no cards or presents would be coming this year from Sirius. Not this birthday; not the next; not ever again.

He thought with a flood of regret about his lost Firebolt, the first gift Sirius had ever sent him. Who could have asked for a better godfather?

_If I hadn't been so stupid…If I hadn't believed that ridiculous vision…If I hadn't gone off half-cocked to the Department of Mysteries…How different would this birthday be if I hadn't gotten Sirius killed?_

Abruptly, Harry wished he could go talk to Quinn. He knew it wasn't rational; more than that, he knew it wasn't _fair. _He had cheated on her, betrayed her trust, broke her heart. Okay, perhaps that was a bit conceited, but at the very least he hadn't acted in any way that gave him the right to go pour his sorrows out to her.

He got up, moving almost without thinking, walked to the window and looked down the street at her house. The blinds were still closed – not a single sign of life came from the house. Again, though, the pervasive sense of her, inexplicable yet undeniable, flooded him. He could almost _see _her standing at her own bedroom window, just behind the curtains, her face turned toward Number Four, her eyes closed (as his suddenly were) while she pictured him.

_Stop it, _he commanded himself roughly, shaking off the fantasy. _You're with Hermione now. You will NOT be that kind of an asshole who changes girlfriends every week – that kind of jerk who can't make up his mind between two girls who both deserve better than to be treated like that!_

Since Hedwig was still sleeping and sitting in his room was promising to drive him mad, Harry skipped breakfast and spent the day in the park. He'd never considered himself much of a bookworm, but he still had a lot of homework to do before term started. He'd figured out that he could hide his spell books by slipping them inside paperback jackets of other books – Dudley's second bedroom, where he slept, was crammed with books Dudley had never and probably would never read. Harry rather liked sitting out in the fresh air to do his schoolwork instead of hiding upstairs in his bedroom; his brain worked better in the sunshine, he decided, because the lessons came a lot easier than they had at the beginning of the summer.

_Or maybe it's because I'm not distracted by wanting to kiss Hermione…_

Whatever the reason, he was speeding through his lessons. He sat on the swing set in the shade, occasionally crossing the street to buy a lemon ice from the vendor who kept shop there, and read until dusk came on. He was so absorbed that he even forgot his concerns about Hedwig and Dumbledore and his grief for Sirius until the light began to fade and the words started to blur.

He had just closed his Transfiguration book (hidden inside a _Lord of the Rings _cover) and stood to go when a voice said quietly behind him, "Good book?"

_Quinn._

Although he had rehearsed what he might say to her, and what she might say to him, a dozen times over the last week, Harry nevertheless felt unprepared to face her. He turned slowly, caught off-guard by how pretty she looked in a simple white sundress – _not as pretty as Hermione, dammit! _– and managed a self-conscious grin.

"It's okay," he answered. "Uh…how are you?"

She shrugged. He noticed she avoided his eyes as she took a seat on the swings. Remembering the first night they met here in the park with a painful lurch in the region of his heart, Harry hovered awkwardly off to one side.

He was also acutely aware that he was sweaty and sunburned and probably a bit smelly from sitting outside all day, while Quinn, as always, looked and smelled wonderful.

"Where's Hermione?"

"Oh. Uh, her grandmother passed away. She's with her parents." An uncomfortable pause followed, so he added, "She left about a week ago."

"I'm sorry."

Quinn pushed her hair behind her ears. With a shock of surprise, Harry recalled Hermione doing just that when she was nervous – were they really so much alike, or was that a girl thing in general?

"Tell her I'm sorry – Well, actually, don't. It probably wouldn't mean much coming from me."

Harry felt a wave of pity for this beautiful girl. She could have been bitter; she could have wished both he and Hermione nothing but trouble for the rest of their lives. Instead, she was still the same kind, compassionate Quinn he had fallen so hard for.

_Dangerous waters, Potter. Tread carefully…_

"I'll tell her," he said firmly. Quinn glanced up at him; he held her gaze. "She'll appreciate it. So do I."

She shrugged again and left him to languish in silence while she swung slowly back and forth. He wanted to say something else – what, he wasn't sure, but he sensed that more needed to be said.

Hesitantly, he began, "I saw your mother's car – "

"It's Aaron's. Everything we have is Aaron's."

The bitterness was undisguised then, but Harry knew it wasn't meant for him. She stared at the ground and said quickly, as if to cover her outburst, "Yeah, they were home for, like, a day. Mom was royally pissed that I didn't want to go back to Florida with them for a few days. I was like, Why? To see everybody I can't have in my life anymore and have to say good-bye to them all over again? She said I was being 'petulant.' That's her favorite word these days."

Harry almost smiled at her. Realizing just in time that she probably didn't want his smiles, or his company, he said instead, "Well, uh, I should probably get going."

"Okay." She stared back down at the ground. "So what are you doing for your birthday?"

_Bloody hell, she remembered…_

Blushing – he couldn't help thinking this would be easier if she would simply be a bitch to him, like he deserved – Harry replied lamely, "Not much, you know. The Dursleys don't exactly break out the champagne to celebrate my being born."

Quinn giggled, then clamped a hand over her mouth, looking horrified. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry! That's not funny. I'm sorry."

But her laughter had released the tension coiled in his stomach, the tension that had settled there upon Hedwig's return. Unable to keep the smile off his face, he rejoined, "It is funny. A little. I mean, it's funny that they think I give a shit whether they celebrate my birthday or not."

He sat down in the swing beside her, emboldened by the smile spreading slowly across her face. He was suddenly determined to bring the sparkle back to her emerald eyes. "At least they've quit giving me presents. Do you know, one year they gave me a pair of my uncle's socks?"

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "No way! Gross!"

"Oh, it gets better. I once got a tissue for Christmas."

"A tissue? You mean, _just_ a tissue?"

"Yup. At least it wasn't used."

That brought forth a real, belly-deep laugh from her. Harry joined in, more pleased than he supposed he should have been to see her happy again.

_What would Hermione think?_

_Oh, hush up, _his inner voice – the one that seemed to take precedence whenever Quinn was involved – snarled back. _Quinn is a sweet person, and it sucks that she has to be sad so much of the time. If Hermione can't take me being nice to someone, then…_

_Yes? Then what?_

_Then nothing, _he decided. He was speculating about something that hadn't even happened. Hermione deserved more credit than his assumption that she'd fly into a jealous rage because he'd spoken to Quinn.

"Well, it doesn't sound like much of a birthday."

He came back to himself as Quinn spoke. She smiled sideways at him, looking a little sad again.

"I guess not," he agreed.

"Well, uh, maybe we could…do something? Just as friends," she added hastily, seeing the instant uncertainty in his eyes. Scarlet tinged her cheeks. She looked so becoming at that moment Harry nearly forgot himself and kissed her. "I mean, if Hermione wouldn't like it, that's okay, I get it, but…It seems a shame to be all alone on your sixteenth birthday, Harry."

_Run. Run away now, and never look back._

No matter how he would rationalize it to himself later that night, lying in his bed wide-awake with nervous excitement filling his stomach, Harry knew he should have said no. He should have told her that he was with Hermione, and whether his girlfriend would care or not, _he _knew it wasn't right to go out with Quinn, not when he could still so easily imagine kissing her.

But he was lonely. And he didn't want to hurt Quinn anymore than he already had. And if he spent tomorrow alone, he would spend it missing Sirius; frankly, Harry just wasn't certain he could handle that.

So he nodded. "Okay," he agreed, speaking over the small voice inside that was shouting in protest. "Just as friends."

"Great." Quinn stood up. "We'll keep it simple. I'll make you a cake, and I'll sing to you, and I'll even have a gift for you to unwrap. I promise not socks. Why don't you come over, oh, about eight tomorrow night?"

_Come over? __Eight o'clock__? Whoa, wait a minute, back up the train – alone, in Quinn's house? Together?_

Wishing mightily that he'd suggested meeting at the diner or the cinema, anyplace with people and lights where he couldn't possibly be temped to cheat on the girlfriend he was falling very much in love with and didn't want to lose for anything in the world, Harry found himself unable to think of any credible reason not to accept her invitation.

_It's a birthday party, you bloody sod, not an invitation to make out, _his inner voice piped up. _If you're so in love with Hermione, then what are you worried about?_

_Nothing, _he decided, because he knew he couldn't live with any other answer. _Nothing.__ It'll be fine. I can end the summer as friends with Quinn and then go to the Burrow and be with Hermione, who I AM falling in love with._

So he smiled brightly and agreed, "Eight o'clock tomorrow. No socks."

As she turned and left the park, smiling to herself, Harry realized he'd done what he set out to do: He'd brought the sparkle back to Quinn's eyes.


	11. Answered Prayers

**Chapter 11**

Harry was so preoccupied with concerns over his "birthday party" that he tossed and turned most of the night. When he did sleep, his dreams were tangled and disturbed; more than once he woke up with a startled half-cry, heart pounding, unable to remember exactly what he'd dreamed.

Sometime around dawn, he finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He woke at nearly noon when Hedwig hooted reproachfully from her cage. As he stumbled sleepily over to let her out, he suddenly remembered what he'd forgotten to do: send his message to Dumbledore.

_Bloody hell, Potter, what is wrong with you?__ Girls on the brain and nothing else, what sort of hopeless sod are you?_

Sighing, he took Hedwig out of her cage and gently stroked her snowy feathers. Yes, he needed to tell Dumbledore about the pain in his scar. He couldn't recall any of his dreams from the night before clearly, yet he sensed they had involved Voldemort. But could he risk putting Hedwig's life in danger again?

He turned her loose with an admonishment to return quickly. Then he sat down at his desk and rubbed his forehead, turning the problem over and over again in his mind. Two owls had gone astray. He assumed Hermes, the Hogwarts owl Hagrid had sent, had returned safely to the school, or else Hagrid would have questioned what had happened. Still, Hedwig had been very ill after her last failed delivery attempt – suppose someone had intercepted his letter and poisoned her, hoping that whatever Voldemort was planning would be over before Harry marked her absence? Or suppose they were hoping to sever the one definitive link he had to the wizarding world while on Privet Drive?

_A person could go crazy thinking about this…I hate being here, so far away from everyone else, it's like living on Mars…_

Harry sighed again. He felt old and weary, not at all like a sixteen-year-old celebrating his birthday. How was it that Voldemort managed to steal the joy out of everything in his life?

_Well, not everything. There's Hermione._

_Quinn could do some stealing there, though…_

Refusing to let his mind wander there, Harry reached out and casually toyed with the Gryffindor emblem on his robes; he'd laid them out to air, something Mrs. Weasley always did, so they wouldn't smell stale when he got on the train in a few weeks. His heart sped up with excitement as he realized how close the start of term was. His sixth year! He was nearly finished with school, really, once the N.E.W.T.s were over. He would work harder than he ever had, even for Snape, if it meant becoming an Auror. And this year he'd be with Hermione. Maybe he'd even be captain of the Quidditch team! Soon he'd be back on his broom, zooming through the crisp autumn air in search of the Snitch, and safely inside the Hogwarts halls where Dumbledore had everything under control, talking to his friends in the Gryffindor common room, stealing kisses from Hermione beside the fireplace –

And then the answer to his predicament came so unexpectedly that Harry almost slapped himself for not thinking of it sooner.

_Fawkes__._

Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes! When he'd been in real need during his second year, facing the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, he had called Fawkes to him. Now, when he was certain Voldemort was about to unleash some hideous new trick on the Order of the Phoenix, if he tried hard enough, could he summon Fawkes again? Summon him to carry a message safely back to Dumbledore?

_No one could intercept Fawkes, I know it…If only I could do what I did before…_

Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Inexplicably, his mind seemed to know what to do, even if his consciousness didn't recognize it. As in his occlumency sessions, he cleared his mind, forcing out his worries about the upcoming evening with Quinn, his excitement over school starting, even his disappointment that the Dursleys seemed determined to not even acknowledge his birthday this year. Then he dropped deep inside of himself, concentrating first on Fawkes and then on Dumbledore, willing one of them to hear him…

"Aaahhh!"

He cried out when Hedwig nipped his finger. Disoriented, Harry glanced around the room and was surprised to find the shadows lengthening on his floor. Had he fallen asleep? He'd felt like he was really connecting with Fawkes – had it only been a dream?

"You want your letter, I suppose," he murmured worriedly to Hedwig. She hooted softly. He turned the letter over in his hands, trying to decide: Should he wait to see if Fawkes came, or should he send Hedwig out despite the peril?

Just then a tap on his window made Harry jump. For a split second he thought joyously that Fawkes had come, but when he rushed to the window he saw it was only a tawny owl, waiting impatiently to deliver its package. After paying for the delivery, Harry carried the small, wrapped package over to his desk and read the attached letter:

Harry,

Happy birthday! I had an owl from Ron and he told me about Hedwig. I hope she's better now. Was she able to deliver your letter to Dumbledore? Ron didn't mention it. Ugh, I hate not being able to talk to you! I miss you so much.

Anyway, Mum and Dad are doing all right. I didn't think the services would ever end. Is that mean to say? I loved Grandma, but this was all so sad, and it seemed to go on forever. I'll be so glad to get back to school, and to see you again. Mostly to see you again.

Well, enjoy your present. I hope you have a nice birthday, in spite of the Dursleys. We'll celebrate properly at Ron's. Mum is taking me up to London the day after tomorrow, so I'll meet you and the Weasleys there. Be careful, Harry.

Yours,

Hermione

He reread the letter a half-dozen times, unable to stop himself from grinning ear-to-ear. She missed him! She couldn't wait to see him! She'd remembered his birthday, even with her gran passing away!

Feeling almost ridiculously happy, he unwrapped his package and then felt truly ridiculously happy. Of course it was a book – Hermione rarely seemed capable of giving anything but, really – but it was a book chosen, he knew, with exquisite care: "The Apprentice Auror: A Guide to Becoming A Dark Knight."

He had barely started leafing through the book when more owls started to arrive. In spite of himself, Harry felt his ego swelling as gifts and cards arrived not only from the usual sources – Hagrid had already sent his gift, Ron sent a box of wizard gags from Fred and George's joke shop, Mrs. Weasley sent a delicious cake – but also from several members of the Dark Arts club. Even Cho sent him a card. And Luna Loovegood sent him a receipt for a year's free subscription to her father's tabloid, which he found oddly touching.

By the time he finished opening all of his gifts and reading all of his cards, Harry heard his uncle stomping around downstairs and muttering loudly about those "bloody birds" coming to the upstairs window all day. He smiled to himself. Let the Dursleys stew in their own juices – if they wouldn't celebrate his birthday, his friends damn well would!

The evening was coming on in earnest. With a hitch of panic in his chest, Harry realized it was nearly eight o'clock. Almost time for his "party" at Quinn's.

_What if she tries to kiss me?_

_Don't kiss back. Turn away. Tell her you're with Hermione._

_Okay, but…_

"But what if I want her to kiss me?" he murmured aloud to his silent room. He felt sick just saying it, but there it was, what he was really afraid of – _wanting _to cheat on Hermione. Every time he thought about Quinn, he seemed so mixed-up inside he couldn't decide what he wanted, although he was fairly certain who he wanted, and it was not Quinn.

_That should be all that matters, _he told himself stubbornly.

_Should be is a long way from what is, _his inner voice piped up nastily.

Well, in any case, he couldn't stand Quinn up. Resignedly, he changed out of his rumpled pajamas and into jeans and a black tee-shirt – _no, dammit, I am not dressing nice for her _– and had his hand on the knob of his bedroom door when he recalled the letter to Dumbledore, unsent on his desk.

He glanced at Hedwig dozing in her cage. Did he have a choice? Could he risk Voldemort getting one up on the Order because he was worried about his owl?

_Hedwig's more than an owl. She's my friend. She trusts me…_

Before he could make up his mind one way or the other, a soft chirp at the window brought his head up and his heart into his throat. It seemed he'd been doing more than dreaming this afternoon after all; Fawkes was at his window, gazing in wisely at him as if the brightly-colored bird knew he'd arrived just in time to save Harry from a very difficult decision.

"Fawkes!" Harry opened the window and the phoenix flew straight to his desk. He slipped the letter onto the bird's leg. "You're brilliant, Fawkes, you really are. But be careful – I think someone wants to keep this message from Dumbledore."

Although the bird only blinked at him, Harry could have sworn Fawkes gave a small nod in reply. The next moment, he was off into the darkening sky, his motley wings catching the last glorious rays of the sunset.

_Everything will be okay now, _he thought, hurrying down the Dursleys' steps with a new bounce in his step. _Fawkes__ will deliver that message, I know it. And Dumbledore will know what to do. Everything's going to be just fine._

And he really almost believed it.


	12. Happy Birthday Harry

**Chapter 12**

"Happy birthday!"

Quinn answered the door with a flourish that made Harry laugh despite his trepidation. She looked absolutely gorgeous, as usual, but he didn't sense anything untoward in her low-rider jeans and white tank-top. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, the way he liked it best, and her sunny smile could have brightened the darkest room, yet she let him in without so much as a peck on the cheek.

_Maybe it'll be okay after all. Maybe we can really have a nice time and part ways as friends – I'd like that, I really would, for her to be happy…_

"Something smells good," he said honestly, following her back to the kitchen.

"I baked," Quinn declared proudly.

Harry grinned when he stepped up in the kitchen doorway. A homemade banner that read "Happy Sweet 16 Harry" hung over the table, and a delicious-looking yellow-frosted cake sat directly beneath it.

"Sparkling cider, from the corner market," Quinn explained, producing a corked bottle from the refrigerator. She selected two long-stemmed wine glasses from the cabinet and poured them each a glass of the fizzy cider.

"You shouldn't have done all of this for me." Touched, Harry couldn't help feeling undeserving of her kindness. After all, he _had _cheated on her, even though he told her the very next day.

Quinn shrugged. "I wanted to. And it gets kind of boring here, by myself." She glanced away; a knot of guilt lodged itself under Harry's heart.

How could he go away, back to Hogwarts, and leave her here so alone?

_She won't be alone, _he reasoned, _she'll be at her boarding school. And in the summers, well, maybe we can be friends, if tonight turns out okay…_

"So, how about a toast?"

She seemed determined to keep the mood light, so Harry forced a smile he didn't feel and raised his glass with her. After screwing her face up in thought for a moment, she grinned and declared, "To Harry Potter, the first _bloke _I ever kissed!"

They both laughed, although Harry blushed. He wondered – but wasn't about to ask – if she meant the first British boy she'd ever kissed, or the first boy _ever. _Surely not the latter. She was so pretty, the boys in America would've had to be blind not to ask her out.

The cider was unusually strong (Harry preferred the Hogwarts pumpkin juice) but not bad. He finished his first glass over a piece of cake – white, with lemon frosting, which tasted as good as it looked – and started on a second. Quinn kept up an easy, steady stream of chatter, telling him a horror story about the fitting for her hideous school uniform and bemoaning the fact that St. Mary's was an all-girls' school.

"I mean, it'll be nice to make new friends, but how boring!" She sighed, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. Blushing, Harry tried to stop himself from thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.

Tried, and failed.

_Don't be an idiot__, _he ordered himself sternly. _You're with Hermione. You don't want to go breaking her heart – or Quinn's._

He knew the cider was non-alcoholic – butterbeer was stronger, really – yet the fizziness seemed to have gone to his head. He felt hot, almost feverish, and disoriented. He couldn't recall how long he had been at Quinn's. Would the Dursleys miss him if he was gone all night?

_Whoa, all night? And what would you be doing at Quinn's all night, Harry?_

But Quinn already seemed to have ideas for that. Shaking his head to clear it, Harry realized she had taken his hand and was leading him up the stairs. Funny…He didn't remember leaving the kitchen…

His head felt detached from his body. Dream-like, Harry noted that they were entering Quinn's bedroom; she didn't turn on the light, but in the semi-darkness he could see her emerald eyes shining, like a cat's.

"So pretty," he heard himself say. His words sounded strange, as if his tongue had become too thick for his mouth.

"Harry." She was right in front of him, her warm palms pressing on his shoulders, her breath fanning his throat. Harry shivered with the not-so-long-ago memory of her feather-light kisses on his neck. "Happy birthday, Harry…"

She was drawing his mouth down to hers, and he knew how it would feel to kiss her – sweet, soft, meltingly soft, incredible… His eyelids drifted closed and he wondered if this was real, or if he was still asleep in his room two houses down, if he would wake to find that Fawkes had never come and Hermione had never sent her gift –

_Hermione…_

A flash of honey-colored hair over Gryffindor robes brought Harry hurtling back to reality. His lips barely connected with Quinn's – damn, she tasted amazing, he wished he could figure out _what _she tasted like – before he stepped back, his head reeling as if he'd taken a Bludger to the head in a Quidditch match.

"Quinn." His voice sounded shaky, uncertain. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Quinn, this isn't right. I…I'm with Hermione."

Her eyes, weirdly bright in the dim room, suddenly looked hard, like bits of green glass.

"Oh. Right. So it was okay to cheat on _me _with _her, _but not on _her _with _me_?"

He blushed deeply. Part of him wanted to make a nasty retort – what, he wasn't sure, but he supposed he could have come up with something – while the other part of him whispered that Quinn had earned a few well-landed blows. He had treated her with total disregard, much as he hated to admit it. He'd known all along where his heart truly was, with Hermione, but he'd been too much of a coward to own up to that until he was certain he could have her; Quinn had been a distraction, a pretty substitute for who he really wanted.

So he ducked his head and waited for her to go on. She did, each word cutting at him like a knife.

"I show up here, completely alone, and meet this guy I think is really cool. God, did you have me fooled, Harry. I mean, I thought you were soooooo different than all the assholes I'd known before. But no. Turns out, you're worse than all the rest of them put together. And you've got all of them fooled, don't you? All those friends of yours. All those teachers. They all think you're special. No, it's like…it's like they all think you're _perfect. _Saint Potter."

He winced. _Don't hold back now, Quinn, let it all out…Bloody hell…_

"But I know better." Her words were cold as ice, flinty as steel. "I know the real you. And you're hardly a saint, Harry Potter. You're the biggest fraud I've ever known."

She stalked past him. At the door, she wheeled back around, apparently deciding her fury wasn't quite spent. When Harry saw the tears in her eyes, for him that was more punishment than anything she could have said.

"You wanna know the worst part?" Her voice was high now, almost shrill, and trembling. "I think we could have been happy, me and you, Harry. We could have lived out our little fantasy together, and I would have been perfectly happy never knowing the truth. And I think you would've been, too."

Harry willed himself to meet her eyes, to make her see his own pain there – pain at hurting her. _She's right, _his inner voice wheedled. _You could have been happy. Maybe you still –_

But the thought died before it formed. For better or worse, he was in love with Hermione. Whatever might have been with Quinn belonged to a different life; she didn't belong in his world, and any claim she'd had to his heart had disappeared the moment he looked into Hermione's eyes and saw his own feelings reflected there.

"I'm sorry," was all he seemed able to say. He knew it was pathetic, but it was the best he had to offer. "I'll go."

"Yes. You'll go." Quinn swiped tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. She motioned to the bed, where a small package lay wrapped in shiny blue paper. "But open your present first."

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away. Harry heard her footsteps race down the stairs and, a few seconds later, the front door slam behind her.

Sighing, feeling totally spent and still unusually foggy – had she put something in the cider so she could seduce him? surely not – Harry picked up the package and flipped on the bedside lamp. As the paper fell away, the last of the cobwebs in his mind disappeared. A horrible coldness spread from the tips of his fingers down to the soles of his feet.

_No. It's not possible…It can't be…How…?_

In his hands he held a small, framed picture – but not just any picture. A picture that was moving. A wizard's picture.

He shook his head in disbelief, reeling. Quinn was a Muggle – he'd stake his life on it – so how…?

_Oh. Oh, no…No,no,no,no,no, please no…!_

It wasn't just any wizard's picture he was holding. And it wasn't proof that Quinn had been a witch all along, though, with a sickening feeling, Harry realized just how stupidly naïve he had been about her.

From the cherry-stained frame three people smiled up at him, waving and blowing kisses at the camera: a pretty red-haired young woman, a bespectacled young man with tousled dark hair, and a tall, handsome, dark-headed young man with a devilish grin. All three wore Hogwarts graduation robes, all three were Gryffindors.

His mother, his father, and his godfather. Lily Evans, James Potter, and Sirius Black.

_She knows who I am…She knows who they were…Bloody fucking hell, how did I not see this coming?_

Numb to the very core and shivering from fear and shock, Harry slipped the picture from its frame and turned it over. On the back was written, simply:

Happy Sweet 16, Harry.

The Dark Lord sends his love.

The picture fluttered to the floor; the frame slipped from his nerveless fingers, the glass shattering when it landed. Harry was on his feet and moving before he realized what he was doing. He had one thought in his head – to return to the Dursleys', where he knew Dumbledore's charm would protect him. The rest, all of his questions about who Quinn was – and he prayed she hadn't been Voldemort in disguise, somehow, because his mind might explode from disgust – would have to wait until he was safely inside Number Four, Privet Drive.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, not to realize something was wrong. All those pains in my scar – a beautiful girl wanting me – never even saw her parents…_

_But who could she be? Some Muggle girl Voldemort persuaded to charm me? But why? Why bother? If she tries to hurt me, I could stop her in a second, she doesn't have any magic…_

He was racing through the dark house. He stumbled twice on the stairs, wrenching his knee painfully the second time. He expected to crash into Voldemort or some of his Death Eaters at any moment, yet the house was terribly still, like the grave.

_Don't think that way. You can make it, the Dursleys are only two houses away, you can make it._

The night air seemed oppressive. Harry felt as if he were breathing underwater. Quinn must have drugged him; combined with the shock of her cruel gift, whatever she had given him served to turn his limbs into lead. He was shivering uncontrollably. Desperately, he thought of Arabella Figg, the old squib who lived nearby, the one Dumbledore had tapped to keep an eye on him, but he knew he couldn't make it to her house before he collapsed. He was going to be lucky to make it all the way to the Dursleys' front door.

He lurched along the sidewalk. Even for late at night, Privet Drive seemed sinisterly quiet. Harry glanced at the windows across the street and saw that they were all dark; in fact, the whole street was dark, because the streetlamps were out. A wave of panic nearly knocked him to the ground, but he forced himself to stumble on.

Whatever was happening, the Order would sort it out, if he could only make it back to his aunt and uncle's before Voldemort got to him.

Sirens screamed in the distance. Harry's stomach clenched. Never. never had he heard sirens on sleepy little Privet Drive – what in the world could have happened –

And then his stumbling gait faltered. He caught himself on the fence outside the Dursleys' house and stared, unblinking, up into the night sky, where a huge, hideous green skull floated above Number Four.

The Dark Mark. Voldemort's sign. Harry had seen it once before…

Dimly, he heard Arthur Weasley's voice in his head, explaining to them about the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup: _"You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed. The terror it inspired…Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside…"_

The air left Harry's lungs in a painful rush. He leaned over the fence and vomited. The sirens were drawing closer, and he wanted so badly to sink into a heap on the sidewalk to wait for them, to be carried off to a hospital with clean white sheets where he could sleep and pretend all of this awful night had been a dream.

_They can't help you, Harry. They're Muggles. They wouldn't stand a chance against Voldemort or his followers._

_I know. I know. No one can help me now – please let Fawkes have reached Dumbledore, please let someone be on the way to help me…_

He was already continuing forward, clutching the fence for support. He veered away from it, his head spinning and his vision blurring, and somehow managed to reach the Dursleys' half-open front door.

In the back of his mind he heard Voldemort's shrill, cold laughter, heard him saying again, as he had the night Harry and Hermione almost made love, "You're too late, Harry."

And he was.

Harry stood in the doorway of his aunt and uncle's house with a weight of dread on his shoulders such as he had never known. The entire house was dark. Only a faint; greenish glow from the mark hovering in the sky above illuminated a figure sprawled at the far end of the fall, just outside the parlor.

_Uncle Vernon._

Somehow, Harry forced himself forward. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. Every second he expected Voldemort to appear from the shadows, but no one did – the house seemed deserted, totally void of life. Harry glanced down at his uncle's distorted face. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought his uncle died of sheer fright.

From somewhere long, long ago, Harry recalled his own father's desperate shouts as Voldemort encroached on him. James Potter had died protecting his wife and child; ogre though he had been, Vernon Dursley had, apparently, died the same way, trying to buy his wife and son time to run out the back door.

He had failed.

Harry felt the first of many tears slip down his cheeks as he stood just behind the sofa, looking down at the body of his aunt and cousin where they lay crumpled together on the floor. Petunia's bony frame only half-covered Dudley's massive bulk, but it was obvious to Harry that his aunt had died trying to shield her son from the killing curse.

_Just like my mother…_

He sensed more than heard someone step up behind him. Every nerve in his body came to attention. He wished suddenly, futilely, for his wand; he doubted it would have done him much good, but at least he would have died fighting.

"Why didn't you just kill me, if that's what you wanted?" he asked, without turning. White-hot rage uncoiled in his stomach as he spoke, spreading outward through his limbs like a snake sliding off its perch.

But the voice that answered was not, to his astonishment, Voldemort's. "Oh, Harry," a terribly familiar female voice admonished, "the Dark Lord doesn't make the same mistake twice. He wouldn't risk trying to kill you again while your mother's blood protected you."

He whirled around and gasped. Quinn stood in front of him, but that voice – her voice – it wasn't Quinn's.

_Am I going crazy? Have I totally snapped? Is any of this real…?_

"You put entirely too much faith in that old fool Albus Dumbledore." Quinn's pretty mouth was forming words in a voice utterly alien to her body. Harry thought he might throw up again as she advanced on him, smiling viciously. "His precious little Order of the Phoenix thinks they have everything so under control, they've got you so carefully guarded, but they're no match for the Dark Lord, Harry.

"If the only way to kill you was to kill your mother's last living relatives and break that silly little charm Dumbledore worked on you, well, then, that's what the Dark Lord will do," she continued. Harry stopped when he backed into the wall. "And if he couldn't send a wizard to kill them because of all the spies around you, well, then he could send a harmless little Muggle girl. Or, at least, a witch disguised as one."

Harry wanted more than anything to close his eyes, to look away before the girl he had been so nearly in love with turned into the woman who had murdered his godfather, who had tortured Neville's parents into insanity – the woman whose voice now echoed all around him. But he wouldn't. He would, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that it was real, watch.

Before his eyes, Quinn grew a bit taller; her pretty red hair became dark and limp; her green eyes turned a cold blue; her beautiful, rosy cheeks changed into a sunken, sallow countenance dominated by a cruel smile.

"Remember me, Harry?" Bellatrix Lestrange laughed.

"It isn't possible." He heard his own teeth chattering. He couldn't feel his body anymore; whatever drug she had given him was finally taking its greatest effect. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness no matter how valiantly he fought it. "You can't be – you can't be Quinn _and…_and you…"

"Oh, Harry, you're still so naïve." Bellatrix shook her head. He tried to flinch away when she touched his cheek, but he was too weak. "There was so much I could have taught you…So much, about so many things."

His stomach turned at her suggestive smile. He had kissed this-this _thing, _this vile woman who had killed Sirius and tortured Neville's parents. How could he have been so stupid?

_But how is it even possible?_

_Bloody hell, it doesn't matter…Just go to sleep, just let it finally be over with…_

His eyelids fell shut and, try as he might, Harry couldn't force them back open. He was floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, barely registering how loud the sirens had become – they had to be directly outside now, he wondered which neighbor had called the police when they heard the Dursleys' screams – or how tightly Bellatrix was holding his shoulders.

_The Metamorphico Charm.___

He struggled briefly back toward consciousness. Yes, of course! He'd read it somewhere…Where? In Professor Binn's history class? In Professor Flitwick's charms class?

_No, no, Hermione's book, remember? You read about it that night you kissed, about the spell that could entirely change a person's appearance without the Polyjuice Potion, the spell that was practically undetectable…_

"Go to sleep, love," Bellatrix cooed in his ear. Harry shuddered at her touch. "When you wake up, you'll be with the Dark Lord…"

So he was going to his death then. Well, so be it. Maybe enough people had died to keep him alive – maybe it was time to face the prophecy and see who won, him or Voldemort.

He heard a loud pop and felt a rush of air across his face, but the effort of staying awake and alert had, finally, become too much. As he drifted into unconsciousness, his last thought was to be glad Hermione was safely away from Privet Drive.

_Ron will take care of her, _he thought, and blacked out.

_Author's Note: Three words. Being. Sick. Sucks! Sorry these two chapter took, like, a month past forever. Now that I feel halfway human again I hope to finish in the next two weeks! But do you like it? Oh, I hope you like it! I promise, Hermione will be back before the end. (evil laugh) Love to you all! Please please review!_


	13. Destiny

**Chapter 13**

_You were everything, everything that I wanted_

_We were meant to be, supposed to be but we lost it_

_Now all the memories so close to me just fade away_

_All this time you were pretending_

_So much for my happy ending_

- _Avril Lavine, "Happy Ending"_

Harry swam up out of the darkness with a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. For a moment as his bleary eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, he thought he was asleep in his bed on Privet Drive. His heart leapt at the possibility that he might have dreamt it all – the Dursleys' murder, Quinn's terrifying transformation into Bellatrix Lestrange, his capture by one of Voldemort's most vicious Death Eaters…

But when his vision cleared, he realized he was tied up on the dusty floor of what looked to be an attic. His heart sank. It had been real after all, then.

_They're dead. The Dursleys are dead. Because of me, all because of me…_

_No, don't think about that now, _a quiet voice inside – the voice he always inexplicably associated with his mother – warned. _You can grieve for them later. Now, you have to survive._

Survive? Harry's mouth went dry and his stomach clenched painfully. Unless he was very much mistaken, he probably wouldn't have much time to mourn his aunt, uncle and cousin. Wherever he was, he was completely at the mercy of Bellatrix Lestrange – and she was not a woman known for her mercy.

_Please, please, please, let Fawkes have made it to Dumbledore…Let them find me…_

Harry didn't know whether he dared hope that Fawkes had taken his message to Dumbledore. Even if the phoenix had succeeded, would the venerable Hogwarts headmaster know how to find Harry? Remembering the popping noise just before he blacked out, he realized Bellatrix must have Apparated with him. That meant they could be anywhere in the world. Not even Dumbledore was omnipotent; Harry hadn't had a chance to leave a single clue behind that might explain who had killed the Dursleys and taken him prisoner. Would the Order of the Phoenix think to look for Bellatrix before it was too late?

"Hoping for a rescue, love?"

Harry shuddered at Bellatrix's voice. She emerged from the shadows halfway across the room, her sunken eyes glowing in the blackness. To his left he could make out one small, circular window; at the far end of the attic, he thought he saw a lighter shape that might have been a doorway, but he couldn't be sure.

Bellatrix crossed to him and tipped a glass of water to his lips. He hesitated for a moment, remembering the drugged cider she'd given him before (how long had he been here, anyway? one day? two days? an hour?). Then he decided he might as well risk it – she could just as easily curse him as drug him now.

The water was cool and sweet. Some of the nausea lessened after he drank most of the glass, though his head still pounded.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice rough with fear and exhaustion.

"The ruins of what was once a grand mansion."

Bellatrix sat down cross-legged facing him. Looking at her in the half-light, Harry recalled seeing her in Dumbledore's Pensieve during his fourth year. She had been a striking woman then; not beautiful, but commanding, with lush dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes. Even now, after her years in Azkaban, she retained remnants of that beauty.

_She's prettier than her sister, Narcissa, _he thought in spite of himself, thinking back on Draco Malfoy's mother at the Quidditch World Cup.

"This was my home," Bellatrix went on. She sounded remarkably conversational for the woman who had killed his godfather and all that remained of his family. "The Lestrange mansion. After my father's unfortunate suicide, it fell into disrepair."

Suicide? Harry's wrath got the better of his common sense, and he chided, "Guess he couldn't handle having a bitch like you for a daughter, hmm?"

Half-expecting a blow, he was startled by her laughter. "Quite the contrary, Harry. My father chose to take his own life rather than go to Azkaban for serving the Dark Lord." Her eyes darkened. "That bastard brother-in-law of mine, Lucius, gave my father up to save his own skin. Accused him of placing the Imperius Curse on him. But he'll get his, someday."

Harry shook his head in silent wonder. So much bitterness and hatred between the followers of Voldemort – how did they manage to stand united instead of ripping one another apart?

The cords around his ankles and wrists were hardly comfortable, yet Harry felt himself begin to relax a bit. Bellatrix didn't seem intent on killing him at the moment; one thing he had learned in his encounters with Voldemort was that the longer he could keep his captor talking, the better chance he had of managing an escape.

So he stretched his legs out in front of him and asked, "What am I doing here?"

"Waiting. The Dark Lord should be here soon."

_Fantastic! _

Harry fought off a wave of panic. "So, what was the point of all this? Why such an elaborate game just to kill me?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry." Bellatrix reverted to the baby-voice he found so annoying, shaking her head at him as if he were a belligerent toddler. "Always has to know everything, doesn't the little boy?"

"Fine. Don't tell me. I guess you just have a thing for guys half your age, then."

That struck home. Her eyes narrowed slightly, Bellatrix rejoined, "The Dark Lord always has a plan, Harry. You're only a danger to him if you continue to fight. If you leave our world and rejoin the Muggles, you're no threat to any of us." She smiled coldly. "Not that you're much of a threat now."

Something Quinn – no, dammit, Bellatrix! – had said echoed in Harry's mind: _"We could have lived out our little fantasy together, and I would have been perfectly happy never knowing the truth. And I think you would've been, too."_

He swallowed hard. He wished his head would stop throbbing so he could think clearly. "Okay," he said slowly, "you mean, Voldemort wanted you to…what? Seduce me into not going back to Hogwarts?"

Bellatrix shrugged. "Stranger things have happened, Harry. Not everyone who starts Hogwarts finishes – especially not the Mudbloods. They decide it's not the world for them. It makes them too different from everyone they've left behind."

Harry shook his head incredulously. Voldemort, possibly the most powerful wizard ever to live besides Albus Dumbledore, had decided to _trick _him into leaving Hogwarts?

"I don't believe you. Voldemort supposedly has all these awesome powers – why would he go to this trouble?"

"Oh, it wasn't his idea, originally." Bellatrix smiled her catty smile; shuddering, Harry recognized a tiny bit of Quinn in her. "You see, my master is still weak. He grows in power everyday, but you, you were the reason he fell last time. You were the reason I spent a decade locked up in that awful prison when I should have been ruling at Lord Voldemort's right hand."

Her eyes sparked, and Harry forced himself not to cower, not to show any fear.

Her face relaxed into its smug grin again momentarily. Apparently, whatever she had planned for him, she wasn't in any hurry to get around to it.

"None of the Dark Lord's faithful servants wanted him to risk trying to kill you again so soon. Not after what happened after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and not after that scene at the Ministry of Magic a few months ago. I persuaded my master to let me try to convince you not to return to Hogwarts, to renounce the wizard life and live as a Muggle. Then when he had regained his former power, regained it ten-fold even, he could deal with you at his leisure."

In spite of himself, Harry felt a perverse pride that Voldemort so feared him. "And this was your great plan?" he demanded haughtily. "To make me fall in love with a Muggle girl who didn't even exist and then…what? Marry me and live out the fantasy?"

"You don't think people fall in love at your age and stay in love forever?" For the briefest moment, Bellatrix looked wistful. Then she blinked away whatever memory had come upon her and turned her cruel smirk on him again. "And it wasn't just any Muggle girl, love. No, we couldn't trust any ridiculous sixteen-year-old girl to carry out this plan. So Lord Voldemort worked the Metamorphico Charm on me, and things were going swimmingly until that little Mudblood showed up."

"But how did you even know it would work? How could you be sure I'd even be interested in Qui- in you?"

Bellatrix batted her eyes at him. Harry's skin crawled. He had kissed this disgusting creature – let her touch him – wanted to do much, much more than that with her…

Stop it! Stay focused. You didn't know, you couldn't have known, she had everybody fooled… 

Somehow, though, he couldn't quite convince himself that he was justified in his ignorance. Quinn had been just a little too perfect. As Bellatrix went on, Harry's face flamed with the realization of how naïve he had been.

"Oh, I took great pains to be sure you'd be 'interested.' Red hair and green eyes, just like that Mudblood mother you idolize so much. A deep, personal loss that would remind you of your own dead parents and that worthless traitor Sirius Black – "

"Don't talk about Sirius!" A sudden fury rose up in Harry. He lunged forward, knocking himself off-balance and nearly toppling over. Bellatrix's cool smile infuriated him beyond words. "All those weeks, you-you sat there and let me talk about Sirius, tell you things I hadn't told anyone else, and you-you –"

"And I killed him, yes." She responded coolly, as if his anger were completely irrational. "But you were desperate for someone to share him with, weren't you, Harry? Desperate for someone who didn't look at you with pity in her eyes every time you mentioned his name. Someone who understood loss. And I understand loss, Harry. I understand better than you'll ever know."

Harry blinked furiously against threatening tears. He had trusted Quinn with his dearest memories of Sirius, with the darkest elements of his grief. Now he couldn't help feeling that he had betrayed his godfather by confiding in his killer, however unknowingly he had done it.

Bellatrix went on smoothly, "I watched you closely that night in the Department of Mysteries. I saw how protective you were of your little friends – and I saw the way that little girl looked at you. I suspected you were in love with her, too, so I patterned my disguise after her. Took up her little habits – " she serenely tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, mocking him with her eyes as he recalled both Quinn and Hermione doing just that " – read a lot of books, made myself adventurous but academic. And you fell for it, love. You fell for it hook, line and sinker."

He hoped the darkness of the attic concealed his blood-red blush. "I guess Hermione showing up threw a wrench in your little plan, huh?" He wished his voice didn't sound so brittle, so hurt. He wanted to be as unflappable as Bellatrix was.

"Hmm. That it did. So I guess you can thank your girlfriend for your aunt and uncle dying – once my plan stopped working, Lord Voldemort instructed me to do what the other Death Eaters thought should have been the plan from the beginning: Kill the last remaining members of your mother's family, rendering Dumbledore's little charm useless."

Terrible images of the Dursleys dead in their home – Uncle Vernon, sprawled in the kitchen doorway, Aunt Petunia curled over Dudley in a last hopeless act of protection – doubled the pain in Harry's head. He closed his eyes to let it all sink in: Bellatrix had pretended to be a Muggle girl to seduce him into leaving Hogwarts; when he turned away from her and back to Hermione, she'd waited for her opportunity to murder the Dursleys, breaking the protective charm Petunia had sealed by taking him in as a baby.

Of course Voldemort, or any of his Death Eaters, couldn't simply show up on Privet Drive to kill them. The Order watched Harry too closely in the summers. It had to be someone they would never suspect – someone who seemed perfectly harmless, like a lonely Muggle girl with a crush, a girl Harry had let into their lives…

_And the Metamorphico Charm could only be detected by a wizard of equal strength to the one who cast it, _Harry recalled from what he'd read in Hermione's book. _Lupin must not have mentioned Quinn to anyone after that first night – he wanted to protect my privacy, he's like that…And Hermione wouldn't have told anyone…And I wouldn't tell Ron, or anyone else…So there was no way for Dumbledore to know, to suspect that something might be wrong, and he was the only one who could have seen through the charm…_

"And Hedwig?" he forced himself to ask. The owl mystery was, as far as he could tell, the last remaining piece of the puzzle. "How did you intercept Hedwig?"

"I didn't." Bellatrix stood and walked over to the little window. With a sinking feeling, Harry realized she was watching someone arrive. "I sweet-talked your ignorant cousin into walking me home that day you saw me outside the ice cream shop. And when we were alone I put the Imperius Curse on him. I had him feed your owl a poisoned treat so she wouldn't be able to deliver any messages for you. And the school owl, well, that was simply a matter of dear little Ickle Duddey-kins – " Harry flinched at the pet name his aunt had used for Dudley " – luring him in his window as he flew away from yours and rewriting your letter to that stupid oaf Hagrid."

_How perfect, _Harry thought sourly. _She didn't leave anything up to chance. Except –_

"Fawkes," he whispered, his heart leaping with hope again.

Bellatrix turned from the window. "Ah. Yes. Dumbledore's phoenix. There's no fooling one of those birds – they might as well be humans. But I made my move in time, didn't I, Harry? Your message didn't save your family."

She took a few steps toward him and dropped her voice to a whisper. "And it isn't going to save you, either."

Behind her, the attic door swung slowly open. Harry's heart rate tripled; he could sense Voldemort's presence, could feel the cold cruelty in his very blood, as if someone had dumped ice water into his veins. But he refused to tremble. He sat up as straight as he could with the cord around his wrists tied to the cord around his ankles and faced Voldemort with a defiant glare.

"Master." Bellatrix bowed low, her voice the cloying, whining affectation Harry had come to hate about her. "We have succeeded. His mother's sister and nephew are dead. Dumbledore's protection is broken."

"You have done well." Voldemort, tall and regal in jet-black robes, laid his abnormally long fingers on Bellatrix's shoulder. His snake-like eyes were fastened on Harry; he looked frighteningly like a predator about to strike its prey.

"So, Harry Potter, you have chosen death after all."

Although his insides felt like jelly, Harry forced a hard edge into his voice. He would _not _let Voldemort see him frightened. "Fuck you."

Voldemort laughed. The sound made every cell in Harry's body quiver. "Defiant to the last, I see. I must admit, I was hoping you would fall for Bellatrix's little ruse. It would have made things…simpler."

"You're mad if you think I'd ever leave Hogwarts," Harry lied. He knew he wouldn't now, but yes, when he'd first met Quinn, he'd fantasized about what a nice, normal Muggle life might be like. "I know my destiny. It's to fight you."

"Destiny." Voldemort turned the word over in his mouth as if he'd never heard it before. Stepping closer, he loosened Harry's bonds with one graceful motion and drew him almost gently to his feet. Harry shuddered at the coldness of Voldemort's papery skin against his; the man felt like nothing so much as a well-preserved corpse.

Together, they walked to the small window and looked out across the ruins of a once-beautiful garden. Even with his hands and feet free, Harry knew running away would be pointless – Voldemort and Bellatrix both had wands. He wouldn't have gotten two steps before they jinxed him.

So he stood rigid, repulsed by the man at his side, as Voldemort went on in his eerily smooth voice, "Destiny, Harry, is a slippery concept. I learned that the night I tried to kill you, to avert the prophecy I had heard of, that you would be the one to stop me. I wonder now what would have happened if I had ignored it, if I had continued to gather supporters, to swell the ranks of my Death Eaters. We were so close to complete and total victory then, Harry, so close I could taste it. The power was…intoxicating. And I thought, just a baby, just a tiny infant, how could he possibly harm me? I thought to kill you then, to buy myself peace of mind forever.

"But now, Harry, now I wonder." Voldemort laid his spidery fingers on Harry's cheek. It took everything Harry had not to scream at the bolt of pain that flashed through his scar. "Did I make the prophecy true that night? If I had ignored it, if I had gone on my way and taken the victory that was almost mine, would you have the power you have now? I think not, Harry. I think the power you have came from me that night. By trying to avert the prophecy, I made it true."

Forcing his voice to remain calm and steady, Harry retorted, "So what're you saying? That if I left this life, if I stopped being a wizard, the prophecy would cease to exist?"

"I believe so, yes." Voldemort's eyes bored into his; in spite of himself, Harry looked away, unable to withstand the scrutiny. "I know what I've taken from you. Parents who adored you. A godfather who worshipped you. The only family you've ever known. A friend who could have done great things with his life."

Tears pricked Harry's eyes. _Kill me and get it over with, _he thought desperately, staring at the weeds encroaching on the Lestrange mansion. In the moonlight, shapes seemed to move below, but he knew it was only his eyes playing tricks on him. No help was coming.

So send me on to them. Let me be with my parents, with Sirius – I've failed, I'm not strong enough, but Dumbledore can still fight him…

"You could still walk away, Harry."

Voldemort's half-whispered offer froze Harry in place. "You could quash all that rage you have toward me, stifle your desire for revenge, and walk away. I would let you go."

Something cold opened up inside Harry, something he couldn't even describe. His stomach felt hollow. It was like he'd felt when Sirius fell through the curtain, only worse – much, much worse, like he wasn't human anymore.

He heard himself say distantly, "You know I can't."

"Why?"

Because it's wrong. Because of all the people that would die by your hand, by the hands of your Death Eaters. Because whatever happens, this is who I am, this is what I'm supposed to do…

But he didn't say any of that. He didn't answer at all. Voldemort was evil, through and through; whatever humanity had once resided in the boy Tom Riddle was gone, consumed by the darkness of rage, hate and revenge inside of the self-proclaimed Dark Lord. There was no reasoning with a madman, no parley with a demon. If Voldemort wanted him dead, he could kill him. Harry would make no deals with the man who had murdered so many people he loved.

After a long, charged silence, Voldemort folded his long fingers in front of him and fixed Harry with an imperious glare. Harry looked back, unflinching.

"I will only offer this once," Voldemort declared. Though he spoke softly, his voice rang in the empty attic, as if the air itself stood silent and at attention to hear the Dark Lord. "If you leave now, and never practice magic again, I will spare those you love. But if you refuse me now, I swear to you that I will take from you everyone you hold dear, one by one. You will watch the pain and the loss tear them apart even as its tears you apart. And in the end, Harry, the outcome will be the same: I will reign, with my faithful servants, and you and all who oppose me will be dead."

For one moment, Harry hesitated. His resolve threatened to waver. He had already lost so much – no, that wasn't the way to put it, he had already _caused _so much loss. Hadn't he wondered time and again how many lives needed to be sacrificed to protect his? Now Voldemort himself was offering a truce, a guarantee for the safety of those Harry cared about more than anything else in the world. Even more than his own life.

_Think, Harry, _the quiet voice inside his heart spoke up solemnly. _Voldemort__ can't be trusted. And even if he could be, even if you left here now and vowed never to practice magic again, do you think Dumbledore and the others would stand aside while Voldemort rose to power again? No. They'll all fight him. And because they fight him, he will kill them, whether you stand against him or not._

_At least with you, they have a chance for victory. Don't take hope away from them, Harry…_

So this was it. The moment of hesitation passed; for better or worse, Harry was in this fight for good.

"No," he answered quietly, surprised by the strength of his own voice. "I won't walk away. I won't join with you and I won't stand back while you kill innocent people."

Bellatrix snorted. Harry started; he'd forgotten she was there. "Master," she cooed, sidling up to Voldemort from behind, "let me kill him for you now. He's just like his father – stubborn to his last breath. The charm is broken. Give me this honor, Master, I beg you – "

"No." Voldemort's ghostly smile made his hideous snake-like features all the more terrifying. "I have studied the old magic Dumbledore used to protect the boy. He returned to his mother's kin this summer. That means until his next birthday, the charm is sealed. But then," Voldemort raised his wand ever so slightly, and Harry fought the urge to flinch away, "then there will be no charm to protect you, boy. And we will see who wins the day."

A flood of relief washed over Harry as Voldemort turned away. So this was it? They weren't going to kill him tonight?

_I shouldn't feel so happy, not when the Dursleys are dead…_

_But I want to live, dammit, I'm only sixteen and I want a chance to live!_

Bellatrix was scurrying after Voldemort as he crossed the attic. "And what of him now, Master? Do you just want him returned to Dumbledore unharmed?"

"Returned, yes. Unharmed…I leave that up to you, Bellatrix." Voldemort paused at the attic door. Harry felt the familiar fear surging up from his toes again, paralyzing him. "But remember, for now he remains under the protection of a very old, very powerful magic. Be careful how far you try to go."

With that, Voldemort was gone.

Harry stood against the window, feeling a tingle of rage replace the worst of the fear. His eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness and he watched, his muscles wound tight like a cat about to spring, as Bellatrix sauntered toward him, wand raised.

"You'd like to kill me, wouldn't you, Harry?"

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. _If I only had my wand…___

_No use worrying about the "if onlys", _his inner voice piped up. _Concentrate on the "what is." You can still hurt her – you can still fight._

He moved along the wall and then out into the center of the room. They circled one another like tigers. "You're no match for me, boy," Bellatrix sneered. "I would have killed you at the Ministry of Magic if your godfather hadn't shown up. I could have had you in my bed this summer. And without your wand, love, I'm afraid you're helpless."

Harry stopped circling and faced her calmly. "Try me," he offered coldly.

The fear dropped from him entirely when she cried, "_Crucio__!_" He leapt to the side; a bolt of blue light shot past him, blasting a hole in the wall behind him. He was scrambling forward on his hands and knees before Bellatrix could even turn.

"_Crucio__!" _she cried again, but once more, Harry was too quick. He rolled on his side to evade the curse. In one fluid motion, he pulled himself into a crouch and sprang at her knees.

_That's right, Harry! Fight, fight with everything you have, fight this bitch who killed Sirius and left Neville with parents who don't even recognize him –_

Bellatrix fought more fiercely than he would have expected as he wrestled her to the floor. His fist connected solidly with her jaw, and she gasped. Harry crawled on top of her and pinned her to the ground with his knees. One hand closed around her throat – he squeezed, she squealed, and the fingers holding her wand went limp.

He seized it and stood up, aiming the slender wooden reed down where Bellatrix lay on the floor. She propped herself up on her elbows and faced him haughtily, refusing to show the fear he knew she must be feeling.

"You've tried this before, don't you remember, Harry? That night your godfather died?" She stood up, brushing dust off her clothes. "You don't have it in you to work one of the Forbidden Curses, love. You have to really mean it."

White-hot rage flashed through Harry, but it was a controlled fury now, an anger he could focus and draw strength from. "I mean it," he answered firmly, and raised his wand.

"Ah, you mean it for Bellatrix Lestrange. But…What about for Quinn?"

Harry gasped as Bellatrix transformed into Quinn before his very eyes.

"No!" The wand trembled in his hand. "You can't – Voldemort worked the spell – "

"Hmm. But I've been practicing, Harry."

The voice that spoke to him was not Bellatrix's hateful, chiding lilt; it was Quinn's sweet, melodious voice. She looked so pretty and so terribly vulnerable as she looked from his face to the hand clutching Bellatrix's wand.

"You cared about me, Harry. And I cared about you, I know you felt that. You shared Sirius with me. I shared all the pain of losing my father. We could have been happy, Harry, that was what I wanted…"

_It's not real. It's a spell. That's not Quinn, it's not some innocent Muggle girl you had a crush on, it's Bellatrix Lestrange, the murdering bitch who took Sirius from you. Do it, Harry, stop her, kill her, do it!_

But he couldn't. Bellatrix he could hate; Quinn he couldn't. Right or wrong, the distinction existed for him.

"I knew it." Quinn smiled at him, her emerald eyes sparkling. For the first time, Harry realized how much she really did look like his mother. She took a tiny step toward him. "I knew you couldn't curse me, Harry, I knew you couldn't look at me and curse me and mean it enough to hurt me – "

"_Crucio__!_"

Blue light exploded behind Quinn. Harry shouted with her as her small form crumpled; the power of the curse knocked her to the floor, and only then did he see the moonlight glint on the metal shard clasped in her hand.

She writhed for a few moments more before his rescuer lifted her wand. Harry gaped in disbelief as Hermione stepped into a pool of moonlight, wand still pointed at the panting girl on the floor.

Stepping over Quinn, she muttered, "Think I meant it enough, bitch?"

"Hermione?" Harry rubbed at his eyes to be sure he wasn't dreaming. On the floor, Quinn had turned back into Bellatrix, who cowered from the menace in Hermione's eyes. "But how – "

"Dumbledore," she answered simply.

As if on cue, Lupin, Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody burst into the attic. "Hermione," Lupin cried, "are you both all right? Harry?"

"He's fine," Hermione answered for them both. She lowered her wand now that Tonks and Mad-Eye towered over the grimacing Bellatrix. She slipped her fingers through Harry's; he hadn't realized until he felt the warmth of her hand just how cold he was. He started to shiver. "Let's get him out of here, okay?"

Harry clutched her hand, feeling suddenly faint. His headache had returned with a vengeance. "Voldemort," he warned them. "Voldemort was here, just a few minutes ago."

"He must have sensed us coming and gone. He's in no hurry to face Dumbledore again, especially without his precious Death Eaters around," Lupin said. Harry couldn't tell whether Lupin was disappointed or relieved that Voldemort had fled. "Hermione's right, Harry, we need to get you out of here. Dumbledore is downstairs, he'll want to see you, and Hagrid and the Weasleys, of course – "

Harry nodded, although he felt slightly woozy at the idea of facing all of those concerned people right now. "I'm so tired," he confessed, leaning heavily against Hermione.

She slipped her arms around him and he suddenly realized she was crying silently. "Don't cry," Harry murmured against her hair. Without thinking, he kissed the tears off her cheeks. Lupin started and Hermione laughed at the dumbfounded expression on his face. Despite the horror of the evening and the long, painful explanations he knew were to come, Harry sensed warmth returning to his body at the sound of her laughter.

_I'm with Hermione again. We can face this, we can face anything…I don't care if it's maudlin, I love her so much…_

That love flooded him like one of Madam Pomfrey's healing potions. He stood up a little straighter and took a few wobbly steps forward, ignoring Bellatrix, who was being ushered out ahead of them by none-too-gentle hands. The Order would deal with her however they saw fit. Harry only hoped he never had to see her again.

Lupin shook his head. Taking hold of Harry under one arm to support him on his abruptly unsteady feet, he muttered too low for the others to hear, "Looks like you've had a busy summer, Harry."

"You have no idea," Harry replied wearily, and allowed them to help him down to where the others waited.

_Author's Note: I have one (possibly two, but probably one) more chapter coming to wrap all this up! I hope you've liked it. I hope it made sense. I hope, most of all, I've been true to the characters! Please review and let me know what you think. _


	14. Dumbledore's Office

**Chapter 14**

Harry was only mildly surprised when Lupin and Mad-Eye escorted him to Hogwarts. Tonks, accompanied by Arthur and Bill Weasley, had hurried Bellatrix away under intense anti-Apparition spells; Harry assumed she was bound for Azkaban, but he tried not to think about it too much. In his mind, Bellatrix would always be bound up with Quinn. The thought of Quinn at the mercy of the dementors made him cold and shaky inside.

Dumbledore had not met them at the Lestrange mansion. Lupin said something about getting Harry to safety at once. Both he and Mad-Eye agreed that Dumbledore would want Harry back at the school a.s.a.p. It seemed odd to Harry that the Board of Governors had sent warnings to Muggle parents about the danger from Voldemort if Hogwarts was considered the safest place in the entire wizarding world, but he supposed they had their reasons.

Hermione insisted on accompanying them. Harry hadn't yet asked how she'd come to be with the others at the Lestrange mansion; he couldn't imagine Dumbledore inviting her along, or allowing her to come without good reason. A million such unanswered questions swirled in his head – _What would happen to Bellatrix? Why hadn't the Order been more conscientious in watching over him? How had Hermione gotten involved now, when she'd been with her parents? _– but as they soared toward Hogwarts on broomsticks (Mad-Eye had his school trunk and all of his belongings) Harry was content to wait for the answers.

Like the night just a year before when he'd been spirited off to Sirius's house, they flew so high that Harry was chilled to the bone by the time they finally reached Hogwarts. Lupin led the way. Mad-Eye flew behind, obviously keeping watch for any would-be interceptors, but Harry no longer felt afraid. Voldemort didn't want him touched for another year, not until the magic protection had worn completely off.

_And once that spell is broken, what then? Is it open season on me and everyone I love?_

No, he wouldn't let himself think that. He closed his eyes against the biting wind. Hermione flew beside him, her hair streaming behind her, cheeks red and raw from the cold. She didn't ask any questions, although every now and then she turned to offer him a brave smile. Whatever had brought her along this evening, Harry was desperately glad she had come. If only they could just go directly to his dorm room when they reached Hogwarts…If only he could just curl up under the warm covers with her at his side, and worry about nothing else until morning…

Of course he knew that couldn't happen. As soon as their broomsticks touched down at Hogwarts, Hagrid hurried up from his cabin with a lantern and led the way to the castle.

"All right there, Harry?" he asked gruffly. Hary nodded mutely. No one else said anything at all, though Harry saw Hermione lean gratefully into Hagrid's offered hug.

"Dumbledore wants to see you," Lupin announced softly once they entered the castle. Hogwarts seemed eerie with no students in it. Again, Harry nodded wordlessly, and Lupin turned to the others. "Hermione, you stay with Moody and Hagrid, all right? Hagrid, maybe some tea…"

"Right." Hagrid clapped an enormous hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Come on, then, Hermione, let's get you a spot of tea and see if we can't warm ye up."

They left the castle talking quietly together, Mad-Eye still peering suspiciously around corners, as if he expected every shadow to transform into Voldemort.

Harry trailed silently behind Lupin toward the headmaster's office. At the entrance, Lupin said, "Peppermint stick," and the circular stairway appeared. He patted Harry encouragingly on the shoulder. "I'm sure he'll want to see you alone, Harry, but do you want me to walk you up?"

"No." Harry hoped he didn't sound abrupt, but he was too tired and preoccupied to explain that he simply couldn't be afraid at Hogwarts, not now. "Thanks, Prof- I mean, Lupin."

He ascended the stairs like a man marching too his death. Every year of his tenure at Hogwarts, he'd confronted Dumbledore mere hours after some tragedy. And each time, Dumbledore had revealed yet another piece of the mystery that was the life of The Boy Who Lived. Dimly, as if it had happened in another lifetime, Harry recalled waiting furiously for Dumbledore after Sirius's death. He had wanted to hurt the old wizard then; he had hated him for failing, for letting him down, for proving himself fallible. But now, he couldn't summon a single drop of rage. Dumbledore was only human, and Harry was learning the hard way that everyone made mistakes.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking older than Harry had ever seen him look. The portraits on the wall were all sleeping. Outside, the night sky was fading from jet-black to slate-gray as the world prepared for dawn. Fawkes sat attentively on his perch beside his master and winked knowingly at Harry as he entered.

"Fawkes." Harry somehow knew Dumbledore wouldn't mind being ignored for a moment. He reached out and stroked the phoenix's downy feathers. "Thank you, Fawkes. I knew you'd come through."

"Incredibly reliable birds, phoenixes," Dumbledore commented. His voice sounded oddly hoarse, as if he'd spent a long time talking this evening. "The only trait that perhaps surpasses their loyalty and bravery, I've often thought."

"So he gave you my message." Harry took a seat across from the headmaster without being asked. Suddenly, he couldn't think of Dumbledore as his superior anymore. Oh, the older wizard certainly knew more about magic than Harry probably ever would, but for the time being, they were simply soldiers on the same side of an escalating war.

Nodding, Dumbledore absent-mindedly slipped his long fingers through his thin, fine silver hair. "I am sorry, Harry, that we always seem to meet just after you suffer yet another tragic loss."

Because he'd just been thinking that, Harry actually smiled. "It's all right, Professor. It's not your fault."

"Ah." Dumbledore smiled sadly. "I'm not so sure about that, Harry. But in any case, and I am sorry to ask you this after all you've been through this evening, I was hoping you could tell me what happened this summer."

Over the next half hour, Harry talked Dumbledore through Quinn's appearance, his infatuation with her, Hermione's arrival, Aunt Petunia's uncharacteristic concern for him, his break-up with Quinn, Dudley's strange behavior, and finally, the horrifying events of that evening. He left out the more embarrassing parts, of course, but forced himself to be as honest and as thorough as possible. At last he concluded, "Bellatrix said she wanted to convince me to stay in the Muggle world, so I wouldn't be a danger to Voldemort. And he told me that we could avoid the prophecy if I simply refused to fight."

Dumbledore's wise blue eyes considered Harry unblinkingly, though they weren't unkind. "Do you believe him, Harry?"

"I suppose, in a way. I mean, I don't really believe that the future is determined, like we're just playing out parts that were assigned for us." He glanced at the Sorting Hat, sleeping soundly on the shelf above Dumbledore's desk. "I mean, it's like when I first came here, when the Sorting Hat wanted to put me into Slytherin, but I chose Gryffindor. I don't think I was fated to be in either place. I had to choose."

A proud smile spread slowly across Dumbledore's lined face. "You have wisdom beyond your years, Harry. Yes, in a way, Voldemort is right. Had he not tried to kill you when you were a child, or if he had chosen Neville instead of you, things would have turned out very differently." He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to go on. Finally, he asked simply, "What answer did you give him, Harry?"

"I told him I couldn't sit back and watch him destroy innocent people. Prophecy or not, Professor, I want to stop him. I would want to stop him even if he hadn't killed my parents and-and Sirius and the Dursleys."

As he spoke, Harry was surprised by the tears that rushed on him. He stared at his hands clenched in his lap while he struggled to compose himself. Grief was so unpredictable – for weeks, he'd thought he was overcoming his sorrow for Sirius, but now the pain was as intense as the night he had died.

It was because of Quinn I felt better – 

_No, I can't think that, Quinn wasn't real…_

Dumbledore waited patiently, staring down at his own hands, until Harry spoke again. "I don't understand how what Bellatrix did is possible, Professor. How can a person create an entire life that doesn't exist?"

"As for that, Harry, Muggles manage that quite frequently without the aid of magic. But in this case, Voldemort was using a very powerful charm on her, the Metamorphico Charm."

"I know," Harry interrupted. "I read about it. It said only a very powerful wizard could cast it, and only a very powerful wizard could detect it."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. Few wizards have ever had the power to cast more than a superficial glamour, an image spell that lasts a few hours at most. Not even an Animangus uses an image charm – they truly _become _the animal they appear to be. The Metamorphico Charm is wholly different. It is a true illusion, if you'll forgive the contradiction in terms. It changes a person's entire physical appearance, often including their voice and mannerisms, without changing the person himself."

"So Bellatrix Lestrange was always Bellatrix Lestrange, even when she looked like Quinn." Harry suppressed a small shudder – he had really kissed Bellatrix, then, not Quinn! "But I still don't understand. I mean, did Voldemort buy a house near my aunt and uncle's, and pay somebody to pretend to be Qui- I mean, Bellatrix's parents? Because her mother called once, while I was there."

"Voldemort did indeed purchase the house, Harry. You must recall that his Muggle family was very wealthy, and when he killed them, he took their money. But were you to go back there now, since the spell has been revealed to you, you would see what was always there: an empty house."

Harry started. "You mean, the furniture, the cars – everything was an illusion? Part of the spell?"

Patiently, Dumbledore explained, "A spell with the power of the Metamorphico Charm relies on the willingness of others to be deceived to work." He held up a hand to silence Harry's protest. "Please understand, I'm not criticizing you. Why should you have doubted that this girl was who she claimed to be? Why should you have questioned that her house, a house she was just moving into, would be full of boxes and half-arranged furniture? Why should you have questioned that her mother might call to see if she was all right? Bellatrix decided what she wanted you to see, Harry, and because of the power of the charm that had been placed on her, she could make you see that, because you had no reason to doubt her."

Yes I did. My scar… 

Shifting uncomfortably, Harry admitted, "I-I did sometimes wonder…I mean, at first, just why someone so…well, like _her _would be interested in me." He blushed deeply but forced himself to go on. "And sometimes, when she touched me, my scar would hurt, like when Voldemort was close. But I-I thought it was because I was feeling strong emotions, like Voldemort just had more access to my mind then."

Dumbledore smiled sympathetically. "A good friend once told me, Harry, that if you have to be a fool, be a fool for love."

In spite of himself, Harry grinned. Seeing that, Dumbledore went on, "What most wizards don't understand about the Metamorphico Charm is that it must have some grain of truth at the core of the illusion in order to work. Voldemort would have been very conscious of this. He knows how well-guarded you are, especially away from Hogwarts. He wouldn't have taken any chance that a member of the Order might see through his spell."

A grain of truth…Like her father's suicide? 

When Harry asked as much, Dumbledore shook his head. "That wouldn't have been enough, Harry. It made Bellatrix's hold over you more powerful, but not her hold over others." He scratched his chin thoughtfully, looking unsure about what he needed to say. Harry silently urged him on; he needed to know the whole truth of this situation.

Finally, Dumbledore said, "Bellatrix wanted to be seen as a young girl madly in love with you. For the charm to work there had to be a grain of truth in that." He reached inside his robe and produced a picture, extending it rather reluctantly to Harry. "And you see, there was. Because when Bellatrix was a young girl – just your age, in fact – she was in love with James Potter."

Revulsion shot through Harry, followed closely by disbelief. But the picture he held was undeniable proof: His father, James, young and handsome and cocky, standing outside the Great Hall in dress robes, his arm draped around the shoulder of a very pretty dark-haired girl in a silver gown. He couldn't deny that the girl was gazing up at his father with unabashed adoration, no more than he could deny that the girl was Bellatrix Lestrange.

He handed the photo back to Dumbledore as the young people in the picture started to dance. "That was during your father's sixth year at Hogwarts," Dumbledore explained. "He took Bellatrix Lestrange to the Yule Ball that year. Everyone knew she had been in love with him for years."

My father and Bellatrix…I can't believe he wouldn't have seen through her, wouldn't have known what she was…

_Yeah, _his inner voice snapped, _because you were so quick to see through her yourself!_

"But she was a Slytherin," he protested weakly. "A Gryffindor wouldn't date a Slytherin – "

Smiling wryly, Dumbledore replied, "Stranger things have happened, Harry. Though, actually, Bellatrix wasn't a Slytherin. She was a Ravenclaw. Her sister, Narcissa, was a Slytherin."

So she wasn't always bad… 

As if he'd read Harry's thoughts, Dumbledore said quietly, "Bellatrix Lestrange was not born evil, Harry, any more than you or I. She came from a family that believed Purebloods were the only ones who should be taught magic, and in truth, she tended to shun Muggle-borns at school, but so do many of your classmates. That didn't make her evil. I myself had great hopes for her. She was one of the most gifted students to ever come through Hogwarts. And I, I must admit, was happy to see her with James."

It sometimes struck Harry as surreal that Dumbledore had known his parents so well. To him, they had always been whispy figures on the edge of memory, people he knew only through the stories of others, and therefore less real, less human, than himself and his friends. "So what happened?" he heard himself asking, surprised by his rather morbid curiosity. "How did my father end up with Lily Evans instead of Bellatrix Lestrange?"

An odd, wistful smile played on Dumbledore's lips. "Remus Lupin."

"Professor Lupin?"

"Remus had just started his seventh year when he was badly injured in a fight with another werewolf during the full moon. Lily, your mother, was always good friends with Remus, and she and James spent quite a lot of time together tending to him and keeping him company in the hospital wing. As you might imagine, they finally began to see better sides of one another than they had before – you might not know, Harry, that your mother thought James was the most arrogant, obnoxious boy at Hogwarts for most of their time here."

"But he always adored her." Remembering the horrible scene from Snape's Pensieve, the way his mother had looked at his father with such disdain, Harry couldn't help but smile. "And he broke up with Bellatrix after that?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Not long after, she struck up a close friendship with her sister's beau, Lucius Malfoy." He sighed regretfully. "She was lost to us after that, I'm afraid."

They sat quietly for a few moments while Harry drank everything in. The Metamorphico Charm had worked because no one, including the guards sent by the Order to watch over him on Privet Drive, had any reason to question that Quinn was exactly what she seemed; no one had mentioned her to Dumbledore, apparently, so he had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. And the Charm had been even more effective because Bellatrix was, in fact, reliving a fantasy: falling in love with James Potter.

_I look exactly like him, _Harry realized, thinking of the picture Dumbledore had shown him, and the one Bellatrix-as-Quinn had given him for his birthday. _It wouldn't have been difficult for her to pretend to care about me._

Her words echoed in his mind again – _"I would have been happy in our little fantasy, and I think you would've been, too." _Had she meant it, then? Had she wanted a chance to escape the horror of Voldemort's world, to recapture the love she had lost when she was sixteen, to undo all of the horrible things she had done?

No, he would not feel sorry for Bellatrix Lestrange. At that instant, Harry hardened his heart against her and the girl she had pretended to be, Quinn. Bellatrix had made her choices, just as he had made his choice tonight; even with all of the pain and loss he had suffered, he hadn't gone astray, hadn't joined Voldemort or run away from what was right. The same options had been open to her. And as for caring about him, well, she had manipulated him with a calculated deception to make him fall for an illusion, and would have used that love to dissuade him from protecting the people he cared about. His pity for her would always be tempered with the knowledge that she had chosen her path, and that path made her his enemy as much as Voldemort.

The office was bright now. Daylight had dawned fully. For the first time, Harry realized how exhausted he was, in body and spirit. Sensing that, Dumbledore said quickly, "Just a few more things, Harry, before you go to sleep."

Right. The Dursleys. No more time to pretend it didn't really happen, that they're really alive… 

"I've spoken to Cornelius Fudge, and he has taken care of things with the Muggle Prime Minister. Your aunt and uncle's deaths will be ruled accidental, the result of a gas leak in their home. Your uncle's estate reverts automatically to his sister Marge, since his son is also deceased. As far as the Muggle authorities are concerned, you have gone to live with a distant relative, an Albus Dumbledore, in the north."

Harry appreciated Dumbledore's curt explanation. He couldn't think just now about the Dursleys, about the lives that had been snuffed out on his account, about all of the terrible things said between them and the apologies that would, now, never be made. Dumbledore continued, "Your aunt, however, left a sizable sum of money to you, in the event of her death. I've taken the liberty to have it transferred to Gringotts for you."

Cold grief settled into Harry's chest. Aunt Petunia had left money to him? _A sizable sum – _he wondered what that meant. But it didn't matter, really. His parents had left him more than enough money to get by in the wizard world, and soon he would be old enough to have his own job. Yet the idea that Aunt Petunia had, after all, wanted him to be taken care of, touched him so deeply that he had to fight away tears again.

"Where will I live now?" He was surprised that the question hadn't occurred to him before now.

"Arthur and Molly Weasley have asked that your guardianship be given to them, Harry. Remus has also offered to take you as his ward. In fact," Dumbledore tapped a rather large stack of letters on his desk, "I have here letters from more than a dozen of our oldest, finest wizarding families offering to give you a home until you graduate from Hogwarts. But I thought that decision best left to you, Harry, and it is certainly not one that needs to be made tonight."

Dumbledore rose. Thankful that he could at last go to sleep and forget all of this for a while, Harry stood and shook the headmaster's hand. "Will I be staying here until school starts?"

"Yes. I think the school the safest place for you right now." Dumbledore smiled as he added, "Miss Hermione Granger has requested that she be allowed to stay here with you. Since her parents had no objections, I could think of none."

Harry blushed. Years from now, when his son came to Hogwarts, would Dumbledore tell him the story of how his mother and father fell in love just before their sixth year?

Whoa, my son? Slow down, Potter, you're only sixteen… 

But on the heels of that thought came another, much more somber one: _Dumbledore won't be here then. He'll never see my children. He's dying. He won't survive this war with Voldemort, it'll take everything he has –_

_And then it will all be up to me._

Harry hoped his thoughts weren't written on his face. He forced a brave smile at the headmaster as he started out. Halfway down the stairs, Dumbledore's voice brought him back.

He stopped in the doorway. "Yes, Professor?"

A mischievous twinkle appeared in Dumbledore's ice-blue eyes. "I just thought I should remind you, Harry, that the stairway to the girls' dormitory is protected by a charm and turns into a slide if a man steps onto it. But," he added, grinning broadly at Harry's red cheeks, "the boys' dormitory has no such protection, and I don't believe anyone will have reason to disturb you in the night between now and September 1."

He turned back to his desk. "If I may say, Harry," he added over his shoulder, where Harry still stood gaping and blushing, "Hermione Granger is a lovely girl. I think you've made an excellent choice."

Author's Note: I've decided that the story does need one more chapter, so expect it within a week to "wrap things up" – and yes, this one will be all H/H, I promise! But I wanted to clean up all my loose ends with this chapter. Anyway, because some people complained about the non-smuttiness of my story, I've changed the rating to PG-13 (for language and some smut). As for a sequel, well, I can't make promises! But I do have another story in mind once this one is done. Please review!


	15. Finality

**Chapter 15**

When he reached his dorm, Harry wasn't all that surprised to find Hermione waiting for him. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her head tipped forward into her hands, and for a moment he thought she was crying.

"Hermione?" he asked tentatively, his heart lurching at the thought of her in pain.

She raised her head and smiled at him. If she'd been crying, she hid it well – he didn't see a trace of any tears on her cheeks. Unfolding her legs, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. They clung to one another, hearts hammering wildly in their chests.

_I love her, _Harry realized, startled by the intensity of his devotion. _I love her so much, I'd do anything to keep her safe…_

"I'm so sorry about all of this," he murmured into her hair. She clutched him tighter. "I should have listened to you. I should have known I couldn't trust her – "

"Stop." Hermione stepped back, her mouth set in a stern line that still, to Harry, looked extremely kissable. "Just stop right there, okay? You're not to blame for any of this. You couldn't possibly have expected Voldemort to do something like this."

They sat down on the bed. Curving one leg underneath her, Hermione turned toward him. Harry linked his fingers through hers. She went on, "And I didn't really believe she had anything to do with Voldemort, Harry. I didn't trust her, but I mostly thought she was just after you, you know, for her boyfriend. I could never have imagined…"

A flash of the Dursleys' faces, paralyzed in a moment of horrific final fear, took Harry's breath. Quinn, _his _Quinn, had done that –

_I have to stop thinking of her as Quinn. She was Bellatrix, always Bellatrix. Quinn was never real._

Silence closed around them, charged but companionable. Almost without thinking, Harry pulled Hermione onto his lap and cradled her close. She sighed happily against his shoulder, and in spite of himself, he smiled. He'd suffered so much this summer, true, but he'd also gained. Even after just a few short weeks he was starting to wonder how he'd lived before he could hold Hermione like this.

He wished they could simply curl up together and leave all of the questions for in the morning, but he knew they needed to talk at least some of it out. So he asked, "How did you find me, anyway?"

"After Fawkes brought your message, Dumbledore sent Mad-Eye and Lupin straight to your house," she explained. "They found Tonks there. She'd been guarding you, and Qui- I mean, Bellatrix had stunned her from behind. She didn't even know what had happened to her, or to you. Dumbledore thought since I'd spent so much time there I might know something, so he sent Mr. Weasley to ask me if I had any idea what might be going on, and my first thought was of Quinn. When I told him about her, that I couldn't shake the feeling she might be evil somehow, he brought me to Dumbledore.

"They – I mean, most of the Order were at your uncle's house, and the police were all outside and all of these reporters…" Hermione's voice broke, and she closed her eyes for a moment until she regained her composure. Harry squeezed her hand encouragingly. She went on, "Dumbledore went straight over to what we'd thought was Quinn's house, murmured an incantation I didn't recognize – I think it was some kind of hex-breaking spell, but I need to look it up – and all of a sudden, I realized that it was just an empty house!"

Harry tried to imagine the shock of that. He supposed it couldn't have been any greater than seeing Quinn transform into Bellatrix, but nevertheless, he understood why Hermione still looked like she only half-believed what she'd seen.

"But how did Dumbledore know it was Bellatrix?" Harry pressed. The details of his rescue remained fuzzy. For some reason, he thought that if he could just piece together the whole evening, he might be able to make some sense out of the senseless situation.

"Me." Hermione smiled tiredly. "When Dumbledore broke the spell, I saw who Quinn had really been along: Bellatrix Lestrange. It didn't take the Order long to narrow down where Voldemort must have taken you, if he hadn't- I mean, if you were still alive." She shuddered at the words but finished bravely, "After all that, there was no way they were leaving me behind. I told Dumbledore if he didn't take me along I'd Apparate, and probably kill myself trying."

She blushed even as she said it. Harry smiled admiringly at her, knowing the nerve it must have taken for her to give that sort of ultimatum to the Headmaster.

Now that her side of the story was finished, he knew he owed her his part. She didn't press him. She sat quietly, twining their fingers together, massaging his palm with the pad of her thumb. Harry felt a stab of guilt over his suddenly rampaging hormones – given the horrors of this night, he felt as if he should have been numb with grief, unable to feel anything except sorrow for his family's death.

_The Dursleys weren't much of a family, _he noted sourly. _I feel more guilty than sad – does that make me a terrible person?_

Mostly because telling the story would divert him from those troubling thoughts, Harry quietly began the tale of his ill-fated sixteenth birthday. He couldn't meet Hermione's eyes as he owned up to agreeing to a private party with Quinn. He even forced himself to tell her about the drugged drink, and the scene upstairs in Quinn's bedroom. For better or worse, he didn't want any secrets between the two of them. He owed her the truth. She could make up her mind from there.

She gave no reaction to that part of the story. When he described finding the Dursleys', she pulled his hand into her lap and clutched it tightly; when he relayed Voldemort's threats, she kissed his fingers fiercely.

"I'm so proud of you, Harry."

Whatever reaction he'd expected, it certainly hadn't been that. Blushing, Harry stammered, "I didn't do anything heroic, Hermione. I let my family get killed. I-I nearly cheated on you…"

She flinched a bit but remained stoic. "No, you were nearly drugged and coerced into doing something you would never have done otherwise." Holding up a hand to still his protest, she said firmly, "You didn't do anything wrong, Harry. You're allowed to have others girls as friends, and I know you felt very close to Quinn. I'm not going to say I like the idea that you wanted to spend your birthday alone with her, but I also don't see it as you 'cheating' on me."

Harry sighed. _I don't deserve this girl, _he thought. _She's too perfect – smart, beautiful, understanding, brave. One day she's going to wake up and ask herself what she's doing with a dolt like me._

Well, he decided, he would just have to do whatever it took to be sure he made her happy. Reaching out tenderly, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he admitted, flushing again at his honesty. Hermione blushed, too, but she smiled radiantly. "I don't know why I didn't see it before."

"Everything happens in its own time, I guess." Her voice sounded a little breathy. She inched closer and Harry's heart rate tripled as he anticipated her kiss. "And I think it's time we finished what we started a few weeks ago, don't you?"

He closed his eyes, remembering that night in his room on Privet Drive when, if it hadn't been for the terrible pain in his scar, they would have made love. As then, he felt slightly torn: It went without saying that he wanted Hermione, but he also didn't want to do anything she'd regret later, anything that might hurt her or their relationship.

She sensed his hesitation. "It's all right, Harry." Her breath fanned his face; she dropped a row of tiny kisses along his jaw. "I know what I'm doing. I know what I want. I've been waiting five years for you to notice me. I don't want to wait any longer."

This time, when her mouth sealed his, he didn't resist. Hermione melted into him and he slipped his arms around her waist, supporting her as the kiss deepened, her tongue darting across his lips so softly he wanted to moan. The pain and fear of the past several hours, the uncertainty and sorrow of the weeks to come, faded away. Harry surrendered to the moment, to the love that washed over him in golden, warming rays.

They undressed one another slowly, a little awkwardly, fumbling with buttons and zippers. The passion that had spurred their first encounter hummed steadily beneath this one; instead of a flash-boil, it felt more like a slowly consuming inferno, and Harry decided he liked the slow better than the fast. He'd never really considered just how perfectly round Hermione's shoulders were, or how soft the skin between her shoulder-blades was, or how smooth and long her legs were. After his initial round of nerves disappeared inside of a wave of desire, he took his time kissing her all over, enjoying the small sounds she made, and submitted with hardly a touch of self-consciousness to her return exploration, making small gasps and cries of his own as her lips and hands moved across his body.

He couldn't have scripted a more perfect first love-making. When he finally pressed her beneath him, he hesitated for a moment, staring down into her dark, smoky eyes. "I don't want to hurt you," he confessed, suddenly terrified again.

"You won't," she answered. Reaching down, she guided him inside of her, and the ability to think clearly or rationally left Harry instantly as he felt her sweet, sticky heat around him.

Afterwards, they slept entangled in one another's arms. Harry thought it might have been the deepest, sweetest sleep of his life. When he woke the next morning, his limbs a little stiff but a smile already stretching across his face, he almost had to pinch himself to be sure the girl lying beside him was real.

Hermione didn't wake when he eased out of bed and crossed to the window, pulling on a pair of pajama pants in case one of the house elves arrived with breakfast. He knew he should wake her up soon, get her something to eat, talk about what was to come. They had so much they still needed to discuss – most importantly, where he was going to live now, what they were going to say to Ron about their relationship, and how Hermione felt about having used one of the Unforgivable Curses on Bellatrix.

_Let her sleep, _his inner voice prompted. _You have all the time in the world to make these decisions. Let her sleep, and let yourself enjoy being in love, just for a little while._

Being in love. Harry allowed himself a full ear-to-ear smile, glad no one else could see how goofy he looked. Around Cho, he'd always felt shy and uncertain, like just being Harry would never be good enough. Around Quinn, he'd always felt excited and nervous, like being Harry was impossible (for obvious reasons, since he'd thought she was a Muggle) and being a different, more interesting Harry was required. With Hermione, though, he could feel all of those things at once – shy, uncertain, excited, nervous – and still be entirely comfortable in his own skin, completely at ease with who he was. That, even more so than the way his heart jumped when she laughed or how his body tingled at her touch, convinced him that what they had was strong enough to last the perils and trials of the coming weeks.

Telling Ron would be difficult, of course. Harry didn't delude himself that it wouldn't change the friendship the three of them had so long enjoyed. Somehow, however, and maybe it was only optimism, he couldn't believe that it would destroy that friendship. The bonds between them were stronger than that. He supposed he would just have to trust that, when all was said and done, Ron cared too much about both he and Hermione to discard them because they'd fallen in love.

The golden sunshine spilling across the room seemed to pale as, unbidden, Voldemort's threat rang in Harry's ears: _"If you refuse me now, I swear to you that I will take from you everyone you hold dear, one by one."_

Reflexively, Harry touched his scar. His forehead felt cool and dry; he hadn't given it much thought last night, but he'd experienced no pain in his scar as he and Hermione made love. He wondered what that meant. Had Voldemort's tie to him somehow been lessened by their encounter the night before? Had he learned how to block Voldemort from his mind without knowing it?

Outside, Fawkes soared past the window. The answer came to Harry so instantly and so simply that he half-suspected the phoenix had whispered it to him. Voldemort hadn't wanted to invade his mind last night, because what Harry felt for Hermione was so pure, so undeniably good, that Voldemort couldn't stand to witness it.

Love, Dumbledore had told Harry after Sirius's death, was Harry's greatest gift, and his greatest weapon against Voldemort. The self-proclaimed Dark Lord might want to turn that weapon against Harry, to destroy his spirit by taking away the people he loved, but in the end, Harry knew Voldemort couldn't hope to succeed. In all of their battles, Voldemort had never managed to do more than superficial damage to Harry – cuts and bruises, scrapes and scratches, all of which could be healed. Killing the people Harry loved was just another kind of bruise, a bruise that went to his heart but, like any other bruise, would be healed by Love.

The clouds shifted and sunlight flooded the room once more. Harry gazed reverently across the Hogwarts grounds, struck by how much this place had come to mean to him. This, after all, was home. Here, he was surrounded by memories of his parents and of Sirius, who had walked these halls before him, and by people who loved and cared for him. He saw now that he had never needed Quinn to make him feel complete. Those he had lost lived on inside of him; those who remained had also loved and lost, and they were all standing together in the same battle. The love Dumbledore had seen in Harry, the love he had felt last night with Hermione, was a weapon beyond Voldemort's conception, and it went much deeper than any scar.

_And so it will all turn out right in the end, no matter what._

Buoyed by that thought, Harry realized that he was ready to face the day, and whatever the days to come had to bring. He turned from the window, stretching his pleasantly-sore muscles, and walked toward the bed where Hermione was just starting to wake up.

_Author's Note: At last! The family vacations end, the betas return, and the final chapter gets posted. I hope it was worth the wait. I can't promise a sequel but I won't discount the possibility, either! Anyway, since I'm going to take a break from my own writing and let the creativity batteries reload, I was hoping some of my dedicated readers and reviewers would be so kind as to email me links to their stories. Please, please, pretty please? Thanks! My email is Love to you all!_


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